


Caught Between Trusting You and Knowing Me

by gilligankane



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 61,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilligankane/pseuds/gilligankane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana gets her first neighborhood the day after her sixteenth birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Santana gets her first neighborhood the day after her sixteenth birthday.   
  
It’s not anything climatic – the other girls in her school all squealed like newborn piglets on their sixteenth birthdays, gushing over the new cars their daddies bought them – but it’s nice to know she’s in charge of something, finally.  
  
She’s been working the Crosstown-Sheldon neighborhood for years, shadowing Jesse as he worked the street, up and down, day after day. The moment she broke free at the 2:40 bell, she’d hop in Jesse’s cherry red Mustang – a gift from his Daddy - and ride shotgun as he worked, studying technique and watching the way he handled the different people: the pleading mothers, the angry wives, the tough little boys, the desperate fathers who push Jesse away when he knocks on their doors.  
  
Getting her own neighborhood has been a long time coming, and when Jesse picks her up and hands her the black notebook he always carries in his back pocket, giving her his trademark smirk – the one she practices in her mirror every night before she locks the door and goes to sleep – she only smirks back at him and takes it, cradling it reverently in her hands.  
  
“You know what to do, San,” is all he says, pulling up to the first house on the corner. He lets the engine idle and she realizes he’s going to watch her, judge her.  
  
She climbs the steps confidently, the way she’s seen Jesse do a million times and jabs one finger against the doorbell, leaning casually against the low railing surrounding the stoop.  
  
A kid no older than seven peers up at her, blinking owlishly under dirty stringy hair but the door is slammed in her face before she can say a word. She knocks again, smirking back at the mustang’s tinted window and the door is pulled back open violently. The woman inside the house hisses and thrusts a bag into her hands, corralling her children behind her legs, her eyes screaming at Santana to leave them alone, even as her hands shake.  
  
Santana shows no sympathy.  
  
She doesn’t have any for them.  
  
“Not bad,” Jesse says as she slides back into the well-worn leather seat. She learned from him how to be quiet; how to observe and wait patiently instead of demanding and intruding – doing everything he didn’t. “I usually have to ring the doorbell three times.”  
  
It’s a compliment – rare and worded differently than most praise people normally receive, but Jesse doesn’t offer praise often, so she takes the words with a sense of pride, sitting taller in her seat as Jesse revs the engine and pulls up in front of the next house, his arm dangling out his open window.  
  
“They’re new,” he says, turning the car off. “The Boss says to ‘introduce’ yourself.” His lips curl up in a smile and she smirks back. “Kaaskop, she called them. Dutchmen.” He leans forward in his seat, looking past her at the brightly colored door. “Christ,” he sighs. “What are they? Crazy?”  
  
Santana smirks. New meat in the neighborhood is generally easy to scare up, but these people seem even easier than usual. She’ll climb the steps, smile sweetly at the mother – if there is one – ruffle some little kids hair – if there are kids – show a little skin for the older boys – if there are older boys – and smirk at the father – if he’s the head of the household – showing him how she’s already reeled the whole family in. She’ll hand him a card with a fee on the back, shaking his hand too long and too hard and she’ll tell him that she expects a call in a few days with his answer, her fake smile telling him what his answer should be. And within in a day, he’ll call, adding his name to the list of South End residents who are under the ‘protection’ of the Friendly Neighborhood Watch Party.  
  
It was the first thing Santana learned. Her first ride-along with Jesse came the morning he showed up at the Lopez’s doorstep, his 15-year-old schoolboy smile in place as he ducked his head through their doorway and complimented her mother on her choice of drapes, saying that the people who lived here before they moved in couldn’t compare. She had snuck down the stairs, her baseball cap low over her eyes as she watched him charm her mother at the kitchen counter, making Grace Lopez really smile for the first time since her father left them. She watched him make her comfortable, tell her horror stories of the girls on the corners and the young boys with something to prove, his voice high and excited and secretive. She watched him gain her trust and then Jesse St. James pounced, collecting the Lopez’s neighborhood watch donation.  
  
He had noticed her when he went to leave, counting the money in his hand. He paused at the bottom of the stairs and she peered at him over the banister, slowly moving down until she was looking up at him and glaring. “S’mine,” she’d muttered. He had reached forward and lifted the bill of her Boston hat, grinning down at her. “Was,” he corrected, laughing as he pushed her cap back down. “Now it’s the Boss’.”  
  
Halfway to the front door, he’d turned back and she was standing right behind him, treading on his toes. “It’s mine,” she had said, thrusting a hand out to take it back.  
  
Jesse smirked down at her and offered her is hand, shaking it tightly. She had gripped his hand just as tightly, scrunching her forehead up with the effort. When Jesse had only laughed and said “Be good, Little One.” Santana had growled and pushed past him out the front door.  
  
“Everyone,” she’d started ranting. “Everyone thinks I’m just a little kid. I’m big enough to hit you.” She’d curled her hands into fists. “I’m old enough.”  
  
“Calm down.” He had followed her down the steps and leaned back against the cement pillar of the staircase, his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth quirked up. He had looked back up at the house and back at her. Santana had paced on the sidewalk, back and forth, hands still clenched, mouth set in a firm line. He had laughed again and moved towards his car – he didn’t have a license, he told her later, but no one was going to stop him and he was good at driving – and opened the passenger door. “Wanna hit someone, do you? I’m having trouble with something I think you can help me with.”  
  
She’d punched Noah Puckerman for the first time that day. His father had left his mother and his little sister and him and little Noah – he was Santana’s age, with a mohawk-shaped haircut and a scowl that rivaled her own – had declared himself man of the house. Noah couldn’t make the payments and Jesse couldn’t hit a nine-year-old, so Santana punched him once in the gut, imagining Jesse’s face and her mami’s money and Noah suddenly found loose change in the couch cushions.  
  
Jesse had clapped her on the shoulder and steered her back towards the car and she spent the rest of the afternoon with her arm hanging out the window, waving it through the air as he drove up and down the street collecting wads of money and stashing it away in the glove compartment.  
  
Jesse sighs loudly, pulling her out of her head, and reaches across her to push the car door open. “Go, before I go myself.”  
  
Santana slides out of the car seat instantly. This is her first real job – everyone else knows who she is because she’s been doing this for years now, and they know she has Jesse behind her – and she has everything to prove.  
  
The red door is even brighter up close than it is from the sidewalk. It looks like a fresh coat and under the doorknob there’s a block of navy blue someone forgot to paint over. She snickers to herself and thumbs the doorbell, pressing it twice in quick succession. There’s a clatter on the other side of the door, like pans and pots being knocked over but she has no time to consider it before the door is being pulled open by a little girl who blonde hair who doesn’t reach Santana’s waistline.  
  
“Hello,” the little girl says, tilting her head up.  
  
Santana smiles without allowing herself to. The girl has heels on that are far too big for her, as red as the door, and a big floppy hat sliding down over her eyes. “Hi there.”  
  
She must get fed up with the hat, because the blonde pulls it off her head and exhales upward, blowing the hair out of her eyes. “Hello,” she says again.  
  
When she teeters to one side, Santana catches her elbow, righting her as she wobbles in the red heels. Santana is about to ask her if she’s okay when she hears that metallic-on-metallic noise again from somewhere in the house and then her fingers are being clutched by a tiny, sticky hand and she’s pulled off the threshold and inside. Jesse honks the horn twice as the door swings shut on its own: he’ll come get her in a half an hour.  
  
The little girl slides forward in her heels as she walks, an odd ebb and flow of her body that has her standing tall one step and sliding low the next. Santana hops over boxes, noting that the handwriting is big and loopy and slanted in different directions on every one of them, losing her footing as the little girl tugs her along down the hall, towards what looks like a kitchen.  
  
“Hello!” the little girl shouts. Santana stops in the doorway and let’s go of the girl’s hand, taking in the scattered boxes and the stacks of dishes leaning precariously off the kitchen counter. A head of blonde hair – lighter than the little girl’s – bobs behind a pile of cardboard before it’s followed by a pale neck and pale shoulders exposed by a dark tank top. The hair piled on the girl’s hair sways side to side as the taller blonde does something that looks like dancing. The little girl at Santana’s side pouts, pulling her forehead together into a series of wrinkles, and marches through the mess into what looks the like the center of the kitchen, standing with her hands on her hip. “Hello!” she shouts again.  
  
The dancing blonde jumps a bit, sliding out of view for a moment before she pops back up, facing them now, eyes immediately spotting the little girl. “Kathryn! Where did you go? I was looking for you.”  
  
Kathryn crosses her arms over her chest, floppy hat shielding half her body and scowls. “The doorbell rung.”  
  
“Rang,” Santana says at the same time as the taller blonde. The girl looks up at Santana, glaring a little as she realizes, for the first time, that Santana is standing there.  
  
“Who’re you?”  
  
Santana crosses her arms over her chest defensively, staring the blonde down before remembering her training and Jesse waiting out front. Her scowl slides into an easy, practiced smile and she leans against the doorway invitingly, squaring her shoulder.  
  
Make yourself personable Jesse had told a nine-year-old Santana – her first lesson. Make yourself into someone they trust.   
  
“Santana Lopez,” she says calmly, taking a step forward, extending her arm in front of her.  
  
The blonde frowns a little deeper, moving around the counter and in front of Kathryn, shielding the little girl behind her long legs. Santana grins when the Kathryn looks up and pouts, clearly disgruntled at being hidden. “What are you doing here?”  
  
Santana wishes she had some sort of food dish that she could offer, citing the new neighbor unspoken rule: someone moves into the neighborhood, bring over a casserole. But she’s empty-handed and already has a strike against herself, so she shrugs good-naturedly, not quite meeting the blonde’s eyes, seemingly giving her the upper hand. “I heard you were new to the neighborhood.”  
  
“Really?” the blonde asks, raising an eyebrow and looking around the room. “What gave it away?”  
  
“We did!” Kathryn shouts, drowning out Santana’s next words. The little girl darts out from behind the older blonde and reaches for Santana’s hand, tugging her down. “Look,” she instructs, pointing at a cardboard box. “This one says…”  
  
“Kitchen,” the taller blonde interrupts. “It says ‘kitchen’, Kathryn.”  
  
Kathryn juts her lower lip out. “It says ‘kitchen’,” she repeats dully. “I coulda did it,” she grumbles.  
  
Santana smirks at her. “Why don’t you find one that says ‘living room’, huh? Then you can show me where it is.”  
  
The little girl smiles brightly, sliding in the heels back out of the kitchen.  
  
“Who are you?”  
  
Santana gives a sort of lopsided smile. “I said, Santana Lopez. I live in the neighborhood.”  
  
The blonde purses her lips like she’s thinking about something really hard and Santana sees the exact moment is clicks, because the blonde stands a little straighter and gets a look in her eyes Santana knows well: hard and defensive and protective.  
  
She counts down in her head:  _5, 4, 3, 2…_  
  
“Get out of my house.”  
  
Santana’s smile shifts into a grin, stretching from ear to ear.  _Sure_  she says to herself.  _Maybe that didn’t go the way I wanted it to._  But now the blonde knows who she is and what she’s here for, and it saved Santana a ton of sucking-up-time.  
  
“I know who you are,” the blonde says. It’s unnecessary – they both know it is – but Santana nods anyway. “I’ve heard about you.”  
  
Santana wonders who told the blonde about her, but something tells her not to waste her breath asking.  
  
The blonde steps forward, her posture impossibly tall. Santana’s gaze starts at the top of her head and slides down the curve of her neck, across her shoulders, down her abdomen and waistline, following the line of her calf muscles and resting on the way her feet are positioned, the heel of one foot pressed into the arch of the other. She gets so distracted she doesn’t hear the blonde speaking until a hand is twisting in the fabric of her t-shirt and spinning her around.  
  
It feels like something she saw on Cops once.  
  
It’s kind of exhilarating.  
  
She’s pushed through the boxes, the blonde’s other hand flat against the small of her back, guiding her blindly.  
  
Kathryn smiles from a room off to the side that looks like a study and waves. “Bye!”  
  
Santana doesn’t get a chance to respond, but she’s pushed over a box that maybe reads “Bedroom” and the doorknob catches her on the collarbone before the blonde reaches around and pulls it open, barely missing Santana in the head with corner of the heavy, red door, and shoves. Hard.  
  
It’s not too satisfying, getting thrown out of the house on her first  _real_  job, but she stumbles across the stoop and down the steps, Jesse shaking his head in the front seat. She smiles,  _no_ , she grins. She grins widely and looks back at the bright red door over her shoulder, tucking her hands into her pockets.  
  
“What the hell are you smiling about?” Jesse asks as he pulls away from the curb. They’re done for the day so they’ll probably cruise, Santana notes as she checks the clock. “You weren’t even in there long.”  
  
Santana shrugs. “I’ll go back tomorrow. Try again.”  
  
Jesse shakes his head again and turns up the radio – another mix CD of his shit-music – and turns down Blackington St. “You better. She won’t like if you can’t close the deal by the end of the week.”  
  
“You make it sound like this is some drug ring operation,” she says, winking as they pass the Chinese market on the corner, smirking when the girl who sits out front ducks her head.  
  
Jesse shrugs and guns the engine as they reach Gasoline Alley. “None of my business,” he says lightly. “But get her fee, San. And get it before the Boss comes looking for it.”  
  
“I’ll do it,” she says. “I’ve got this.”


	2. Chapter 2

Santana steps back as the door is cracked open, putting her hands up to show she’s not holding anything. Pale eyes peer out at her for a few seconds before the door slams shut again. She hears the chain slide open and swallows hard, hot air hitting the back of her throat.   
  
She doesn’t have time to swallow again – or run, which is what her brain is screaming at her feet to do – before it opens quickly and she’s pulled inside, losing her footing as the door slams shut behind her.   
  
The one-room apartment is dark and smoky with the haze of a dozen or so cigars. Cubans, she knows. Jesse took her here for the first time when she was twelve and she nearly broke Noah Puckerman into pieces. The Boss offered her a cigar in celebration, and she’d stupidly taken it, handling it inexpertly. She had coughed for three days afterwards – and vowed to  _never_  try it again. Still, there was something comforting about ducking her head under the clouds of smoke; some feeling she only ever gets here and when she slides into Jesse’s passenger seat. Santana follows the guy at the door, a scrawny Asian named Chang with a nervous twitch that makes him look like he’s dancing, down the hallway towards the back room.   
  
It’s like every bad mob or mafia or wanna-be gangster movie she’s ever seen: a lot of old guys – washed out guys, like Schuester and Tanaka – features clouded by smoke, sitting at a table in a half-lit room, surrounded by money and packages of questionable content, telling jokes everyone laughs too loudly at.   
  
“Lopez!” someone shouts, echoed by the rest of the room.   
  
She waves half-heartedly back at them, eyes locked on the dark spot where she knows the Boss is sitting.   
  
The Boss is the one who called this meeting. It’s been a week since her birthday and the Boss is already calling her in.  _Probably about those Dutch people_ , Jesse had said in the car.  _You still haven’t gotten their fee_  - as if she needs the reminder.   
  
Over her shoulder, Santana hears quiet steps. “Hey,” she murmurs.   
  
A heavy arm slides around her shoulders and she resists the urge to shake it loose. “Hey back.”   
  
“Personal space, Puckerman,” she hisses.   
  
He drops his arm immediately, flexing his arms instead before crossing them in front of his body. “Someone’s moody today. That time of the month?”   
  
She’d hit him – she has before, more times than either of them can count – but she’s still staring into that dark space, waiting for someone to emerge. “Bite me.”   
  
Puck’s hand slides down her shoulder towards her chest and she slips to the right, out of his side-embrace, scowling. Santana hates that he’s even a part of this. She blames herself for it: if she hadn’t scuffled with him that last time then the Boss wouldn’t have called her in and asked her where her brand new shiner was from. If Jesse hadn’t sent her after the Puckerman family for being a week behind on a payment and Puck hadn’t grown a pair and punched her back, for the first time, then he wouldn’t even be here. But he  _had_  punched her back and word got to the Boss that someone had finally landed a hit on the infamous Santana Lopez –  _infamous_  was, still is, Jesse’s word – and now, Santana is stuck with him and his lewd comments and his stupid haircut he thinks makes him look cool.   
  
“Noah, leave her alone,” Santana hears before she’s being elbowed further from his lingering hand. “You’re incorrigible.”   
  
Puck snorts. “I don’t even know what that means.”   
  
“It means,” Santana says over the small brunette between them, idling rubbing her ribcage, “that you’re a pain in the ass.”   
  
“So it doesn’t mean you want to sleep with me?”   
  
The shorter brunette makes a clicking noise with her tongue and shakes her head, turning to Santana. “What are you doing here?”   
  
Santana shrugs. She’s pretty sure it really does have to do with the new people in her neighborhood, but she’s not telling Rachel ‘Big Mouth’ Berry anything she doesn’t want getting back to the Boss. Berry likes to talk and it’s not an irrational fear that she’ll say the wrong thing and Santana will end up being seen as the weak link; the kid who couldn’t make it; who couldn’t handle the pressure.   
  
Berry knows  _something_  though, and while she might think she’s trying to help, she’s only going to get Santana in trouble; it’s what she does with her. “Maybe it’s that Dutch family. Have they been much trouble?”   
  
“Have they been much trouble,” Santana mocks, her voice high-pitched. She schools her features again, staring ahead blankly. “It’s none of your goddamn business.”   
  
“Hmm,” Berry says under her breath.   
  
Santana sighs heavily and swallows the urge to turn and knock Berry square in the jaw. “ _Hmm_ , what?” she asks gruffly.   
  
Berry tilts her head in that “I know something you don’t know” way and shrugs. “Not a thing. Just a  _hmm_.”   
  
“Berry-” Santana is cut off by a hand on her shoulder, slimmer than Puck’s and lighter than Jesse’s. Out of the corner of her eye, Puck ducks his head and takes a step back, moving towards the poker table in the middle of the room and taking a seat next to Schuester, checking the old guy’s cards. Santana doesn’t move, hardly breathes even – though, she’s not expecting it, at all – but the hand is sliding down the curve of her shoulder and her bicep before nails – red, from what Santana can see out of the corner of her eye – press into her skin.   
  
“Follow me,” Santana barely hears. She follows anyway, not that she really has a choice, with the Boss’s hand curling into her arm that way. Berry tilts her head again and Santana sets her mouth in a thin line, turning smoothly on her heel and looking at the floor.   
 _  
Don’t make eye contact_  Jesse had snapped that first time. He had pulled the bill of her cap lower over her eyes and cuffed her on the back of the head.  _.You don’t look unless she tells you to._    
  
When Santana looks back up they’re inside a smaller room off of the back room. It’s brighter, maybe because of the white walls or the light, Santana isn’t sure, but she flinches a little all the same and stands in the center of the room, waiting for instruction. She’s guided into a chair at a small table in the corner and she takes her seat silently.   
  
“Happy Belated Birthday.”   
  
Santana looks up. “Thank you.”   
  
It’s odd, Santana decides, that a woman like Shelby Corcoran would be in charge of an operation like this. Santana has heard she’s not the  _head_  head, but the older woman is high enough up the chain that she knows who is.  _It’s just,_  Santana remembers telling Jesse once,  _she doesn’t look like someone who would do this kind of job_.   
  
And Shelby Corcoran  _doesn’t_  look like a crime lord, or a mob boss, or a gangster. She looks like she has a couple of kids and a clean-cut husband; she looks like she spends her afternoons in a minivan, driving her kids to soccer practice and to the mall; she looks like she loves puppies.   
  
Shelby perches on the edge of the table top, crossing her legs. Santana watches the slip of skin that becomes visible as she does, following the line of Shelby’s leg. “Get anything special?”   
  
It sounds like a trick question, but Santana gives a half-shrug of her shoulder. “My own route,” she says slowly.   
  
Shelby’s eyes light up; it’s the right answer. “How’s that going?”   
  
“Okay.”   
  
“Just okay?”   
  
Santana clenches and unclenches her fists, her palms a little clammy. “So far so good,” she amends.   
  
Shelby clicks her tongue, just like Berry, and smirks a little. “Russell tells me my books are off this week, Santana. Do you know why?”   
 _  
Rhetorical question_  her mind is screaming, so she simply stares up over Shelby’s shoulder, her fingernails digging into her palms.   
  
“It’s because of your route,” Shelby says bluntly. “You have twenty houses, yet only nineteen of them paid. You know, Jesse, he told me that you could handle this. He told me not to worry, that you were capable of having your own route.”   
  
Santana’s head jerks to the right and she’s staring into dark eyes. “I  _can_  handle this,” she says, her teeth grinding against each other.   
  
The corner of Shelby’s mouth twitches a little. “I know you can, sweetie,” she says smoothly. Her hand – not as tan as Berry’s, just a little paler – reaches up and tucks back a strand of Santana’s hair, lingering on her jawbone. “I always knew you could.” The older woman slides back off the table and lands gracefully on her feet, her heels clacking against the cheap linoleum floor. “So don’t prove me wrong, Lopez.”   
  
\---   
  
Santana doesn’t wait for Jesse to bring her back to the hose with the red door. She goes herself, a day earlier than she’s supposed to, this time with a paper plate of brownies in her hand.   
  
The little girl –  _Kathryn_ , Santana remembers – opens the door, significantly shorter without the red heels she wore last time.   
  
“Uh oh.” Santana looks over her shoulder, sees nothing, and looks back down at Kathryn, frowning.   
  
“What do you mean,  _uh oh_?”   
  
“You’re not ‘asupposed to be here,” the little girl sings.   
  
A shadow rises up over Santana’s shoulder and this time when she looks, the tall blonde from before is standing behind her, arms crossed over her chest, not amused.   
  
Santana rushes to explain herself, thrusting the plate at the blonde. “I came to apologize.”   
  
Santana Lopez is in no way  _this_  soft, but she knows how to play the game and more importantly, she knows that to stay on the Boss’s good side, she’s got to get two weeks of payments from this new family.  _Do what you have to do_ , Jesse always says. He might not mean ‘show up with baked goods and an apology’ but Santana figures it might not matter when she’s finally holding the cash.   
  
The blonde peers down at the brownies, her nose wrinkling. “With  _burnt_  brownies.”   
  
Santana has the decency to look slightly ashamed. “I had a timer on, but my music was louder and…” she trails off. “And you don’t care.”   
  
“Really?” the blonde asks mockingly. “What gave it away?”   
  
“I’m trying here,” Santana mutters under her breath. She stretches her arms, pushing the plate closer to the blonde. “I don’t care what you do with them, alright? Just take ‘em, because if I go home with them, my mom’ll think I was making it up when I said I was giving them to someone.”   
  
A small hand grips the edge of the plate and tips it to one side. “They’re real hard,” Kathryn says, poking them. “I’d break my tooths.”   
  
Santana glances up and catches the tail end of what looks like a genuine smile from the blonde, aimed at Kathryn. “No they wouldn’t,” Santana defends, peeling back one edge of the plastic wrap. “See?” She takes a bite carefully but a piece doesn’t break off in her mouth. She winces and puts it back on the corner of the plate. “Okay,” she says slowly. “They might.”   
  
Kathryn giggles and runs inside the house, her bare feet padding against the floor distantly.   
  
“You’re not here to apologize.”   
  
It’s not a question. Santana shrugs, the brownies shifting noisily on the plate. “I will if it’ll get me what I want.”   
  
The blonde shakes her head. “And what is it you want?”   
  
Santana stares evenly at the blonde, catching her blue eyes and holding her gaze. “If you know who I am, you know what I’m here for.” She scratches the back of her neck with one hand, ignoring the sudden cold-like sweat at the base of her skull. “Look, I don’t know  _what_  you heard-”   
  
“I heard enough,” the blonde interrupts. “I heard enough about the kind of person you are.”   
  
“So,” Santana clarifies. “You heard neighborhood gossip.”   
  
This is time, the blonde looks away first, the tips of her ears tinged pink. “It’s the best way to learn things about you ‘friendly’ new neighbors, people say.”   
  
Santana leans casually against the doorjamb, her eyes straying past the blonde to the dark house across the street. She watches a curtain flutter back into place. “They say,” she echoes. “You know, there’s a difference between neighborly advice and paranoia. And Sandy Ryerson,” Santana says, nodding towards the house. “He falls firmly on the paranoid side of that line. He moved into the neighborhood before I did. There used to be this story about how he escaped from a mental hospital and-”   
  
The blonde opens her mouth – maybe to tell Santana to shut up, more likely to tell Santana she’s an awful person – but someone else clears their throat and both girls look over.  
  
“Hey, Britt,” the boy at the bottom of the steps says, grinning. He catches sight of Santana and his smile fades. “Oh. Lopez.”   
  
“Your mother must be  _so_  proud of your manners, Hudson.”   
  
Finn Hudson’s eyes narrow and his mouth turns down. He looks like a kid, pouting at her like that and Santana smirks.   
  
“At least my mother is proud of me for something,” he fires back.   
  
Santana growls and steps forward, pushing the plate of brownies at the other girl. Her now-free hands clench into useless fists. Hudson is untouchable. He doesn’t live in Santana’s neighborhood – not that  _that_  matters, because Puck wouldn’t mind her crossing into his territory and she could always hit him too if he cared. But the Boss had issued the Hudson and his mom a pardon when his old man died in some war. Santana should have lied when her family first moved; said her father died in a battle of some sort. All a dead-beat dad got her was entrance into a world she still had trouble figuring out.   
  
What makes Hudson being untouchable  _really_  unbearable is that he knows it.   
  
Hudson turns his accusing glare to the blonde. “What’s  _she_  doing here?”   
  
The blonde looks down to the plate in her hands, then back up, blinking a few times. “She brought brownies,” she finally says.   
  
Hudson scoffs. “Please. Don’t eat them. She probably put something in them.”   
  
“Yeah,” Santana drawls. “Eggs and water and oil.”   
  
“Don’t you have an old lady to rob?” he hisses.   
  
Santana would snap back at him; say something catchy or catty or something that would sting, but Hudson has a point. She’s supposed to be picking up this week’s payment from the Pillsbury lady on the opposite corner before she meets up with Jesse for Sunday dinner with his mother – she’d gone by earlier in the week, but Santana’s hands had been dirty from dealing with the Rutherford kid and the woman had freaked out at the sight of the bloodied knuckles and told Santana to come back later.   
  
This stupid apology-thing wasn’t supposed to take this long.   
  
This stupid apology-thing wasn’t supposed to  _happen_.   
  
She’s not sure why she felt compelled to even try. If it were any other house, she’d tuck the knife she has for  _special_  situations into her waistband, march inside and get her money. If it were any other little kid who answered the door, Santana would have just pushed past them and found whoever was in charge, placing the knife on the table by her hand. But it was this stupid house with its stupid bright red door and the stupid little girl who smiled too much at her. It threw her a little.   
  
She can’t remember the last time someone smiled at her like that; like they were  _happy_  to see her.   
  
Santana’s running behind though, and Hudson’s untouchable anyway and this is clearly a waste of time.   
  
She brushes by the blonde, their shoulder’s knocking together as she moves down the stairs and stops in front of Hudson, her right fist clenched. “One day,” she promises him. “One day, Corcoran will take back her stupid little rule about you and when that happens…” She shakes her head. “You’re going to wish you’d never met me.”   
  
“I already  _do_  wish that,” he says. “Everyone does.”   
  
Hudson towers over her but Santana makes sure to tread on the tips of his big feet and he doesn’t hide his wince well. “Pathetic,” she murmurs.   
  
Santana turns on her heel sharply and heads down the sidewalk, pulling her ball cap out of her back pocket, flattening the bill and pulling it onto her head. She hooks her thumbs in her belt loops and throws a glance over her shoulder, smirking at the blonde on the top of the steps still holding the plate of inedible brownies.   
 _  
Next week_  she promises herself.  _I’ll have the money next week._    
  
\---   
  
Santana opens the front door slowly, slipping inside silently, toeing her shoes off. Her nose wrinkles up at the smell of staleness in the air, like it always does whenever she comes home after cruising through downtown with Jesse, a nauseating change from the sweet scent of the bakery on the corner of River.   
  
It’s not just the smell, it’s the  _feeling_  of nothingness that lives inside her house.   
  
She read a book about it once when she was younger – how regret and death and disappointment kind of just hung around in the air. Jesse had dropped her off at the library once so he could meet with Shelby in private and she’d wandered around, pulling books off the shelves and running between the stacks. In the back corner of the room there was a section with books even she had a trouble lifting at first. But standing on a chair she’d managed to pull it down and drop it on the table. Most of the words were too big for her to make out – she was fourteen, but spent most of her class time in the Principal’s office, scowling at the guy behind the desk as he asked her the same questions over and over again, not like Berry, who always had her nose in a book, using words when she talked that no one understood – but some of them were easy:  _restlessness, self-hate, loss of interest, lack of energy, trouble sleeping_.   
  
When Jesse picked her up, she handed him the papers she’d ripped out of the heavy book and asked them what they meant.   
  
“Where’d you find these?”   
  
Santana shrugged. “Reference section.”   
  
Jesse smirked and shook his head. “You’re something else.” He took the papers from her and shuffled through them, his smirk fading. “Why’re you reading this stuff?”   
  
“Just found ‘em,” Santana mumbled. Jesse didn’t ask about her mom, so Santana didn’t tell him anything, but there’d been more food leftover in the fridge than usual and sometimes when she couldn’t sleep she could hear her mom walking through the house and the week before, when she’d given her mom her report card, she didn’t even care Santana had failed every class except for Math. She growled in frustration. “Just tell me what the bigger words mean, okay? You’re supposed to be some kind of genius, aren’t you?”   
  
“Who told you that?” he asked, but he had been smiling. “It’s about depression. It’s the symptoms. See?” He pointed to the bulleted list. “These are all the causes and the ways to treat it.” Jesse frowned. “What’s this for?”   
  
Santana scowled and pushed in the old cassette dangling out of the tape deck. “Stop asking questions and drive. I wanna see if those old guys are fighting over the lady who lives in 32.”   
  
Jesse laughed over the sound of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” booming through the car’s stereo. “You still think Schuester has a chance with Emma Pillsbury? That woman is afraid of her own shadow.”   
  
“He has more of a chance than Ken Tanaka,” Santana argued. “I’m pretty sure that guy eats his toenails.”   
  
They’d debated who would eventually win the heart of Emma Pillsbury and the Encyclopedia pages Santana had stuffed into the pocket of her army surplus jacket were easily forgotten.   
  
Santana puts her backpack on the kitchen chair, pulling the single chain light bulb a few times until the low-watt bulb clicked on. It doesn’t light up much, but enough so that Santana can see the food she left out in the morning for her mom still sitting on the counter. She stares down at the plate of eggs and the stupid piece of bacon she’d formed into a smile.   
  
“Mom,” she calls out quietly. The only noise is the television. Santana follows the soft sound to the living room, leaning in the doorway as an infomercial lights up the room. “Hey,” she says.   
  
Grace Lopez looks up from the television. “Oh. Hello,” she says quietly.   
  
Santana moves into the room, sitting on the edge of the couch. “You didn’t eat your breakfast I made you.”   
  
“I wasn’t-”   
  
“Hungry,” Santana finishes. “Yeah, I know. But, still,” she says, trying to be patient. “I made it and you should have eaten it.”   
  
She doesn’t mean to get angry with her mother; she’s angry with everyone else and it’s supposed to be that way so she doesn’t come home and get angry with her mother who doesn’t eat or sleep or care that her teenage daughter doesn’t come back home until the early hours of the morning.   
  
Santana hits Noah Puckerman and snaps at Rachel Berry and let’s Jesse St. James use her as a human version of a pit bull because she can’t get angry at her mom. She can’t get angry at her mother because her mom can’t help being sad, she tells herself. She can’t be mad because her mother just misses her dad – Santana misses him too, but only when she’s alone, with the covers pulled over her head and she can’t sleep.   
  
She can’t hold it against her mom; she just wishes her mom wouldn’t hold it against herself, either.   
  
“Next time,” Grace says distantly. “I’ll eat it.”   
  
Santana nods but she doesn’t believe her mother: it’s the same thing every time and every night Santana comes home to an untouched plate of food.   
  
She starts cleaning up a little, her fist clenching reflexively as she picks up the dirty laundry scattered down the hallway and up the stairs. The food goes into the trash next and then she ties off the top of the bag and puts it by the door.   
  
Santana checks off another day on the calendar – another day before she can graduate from high school and untangle herself from the neighborhood. Jesse laughed at her when she mentioned wanting to go to school on the West Coast; laughed and told her that people in  _this_  neighborhood don’t get out; laughed and told her to stop dreaming about things that would never happen.   
  
“Look at me,” he had told her. “If anyone was ever going to get out of here, it was going to be me.”   
  
It wasn’t something Santana couldn’t have argued with. She’d heard Jesse sing before and she couldn’t lie, he was good. He didn’t sing much anymore, but when he did, it was clear and loud and sparked something inside of Santana that she couldn’t name.   
  
“If I can’t get out of here, neither can you.”   
  
It had sounded like a threat, almost, but Santana had brushed it off – because Jesse might be older and wiser, or something like that, but  _he’s_  not the boss of her – and continued to check off the days on her calendar until someone else, someone important, said something otherwise.   
  
One day down, only too many more to go.   
  
She stops in the doorway of living room and thinks about maybe shutting off the television and telling her mother to go to bed, but she decides against it.   
  
The blank look she’ll get in response is just too much to handle right now.   
  
\---   
  
Santana holds out the bottle of scotch she snagged from the study in the Fabray house, but Quinn doesn’t take it, so Santana caps it and puts it back down. She doesn’t really like the taste of it, but Russell Fabray drinks it, and he’s a powerful guy.  
 _  
Maybe the scotch is what makes him powerful_ , is her reasoning.   
  
“No,” Quinn snorts. Santana blinks, because she didn’t know she had said anything out loud. “The scotch is his kryptonite, if anything.”   
  
“Think if we give him enough, he’ll fudge the books this week?”   
  
Quinn rolls over onto her stomach, stretched out across the Fabray’s couch, her shoes digging into the immaculate cushions. If Mrs. Fabray ever caught them like this, Santana would be banned from the house indefinitely, like that week a few years ago when she’d spilled grape juice on the tablecloth, staining it purple. Mrs. Fabray, though, is at bridge club, or some other fancy thing that women who drink too much do, and when Santana puts the scotch bottle on the coffee table without a coaster, no one yells at her for it.   
  
“You’re behind again?”   
  
Santana waves her hand dismissively even though she swallows roughly, her throat dry. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll get it done.”   
  
Quinn raises an eyebrow. “Really?”   
  
Groaning, Santana slides off the edge of the chair she’s sitting in to the floor, letting her legs sprawl out in front of her. She idly wipes at a spot on dirt on the knee of her jeans, licking the tip of her thumb and rubbing at it. “Leave it alone, Quinn. You know, I saw Puck the other day. He said you were looking good.”   
  
Quinn blushes but ignores her. “How much are you down?”   
  
“I said to leave it. We wouldn’t want Daddy’s Little Girl  _tarnished by the precariously criminal life I’ve gotten myself into_ ,” Santana sneers, quoting Mrs. Fabray’s words, spoken in a hushed whisper every time the older woman thought Santana couldn’t hear her.   
  
Quinn sits up and crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at Santana, but in her baby doll dress and her pristine white sweater, she looks like more like a little girl demanding ice cream than a teenager pissed about being cut out of the neighborhood loop and Santana wants to make some smartass comment about Puck not being into choir girls; though, that’s a lie. It doesn’t help the image when she huffs, “Nobody tells me what to do.”   
  
Santana rolls her eyes. “Yeah. No one but your mother. And no one tells your mother what to do except for your father.”   
  
“Santana,” Quinn protests. “If you’re behind another week, Daddy will have to tell Shelby. And Shelby…”   
  
“Shelby told me not to mess this up, I know.” Santana sighs. “It’s just this new family. I don’t know what the parents do. I can’t make it past older sister. She hates me, on principle, and she’s been hanging out with Hudson-”   
  
Quinn grins. “So Finn has been feeding her horror stories about you, then.”   
  
Santana groans again and throws an arm across her face. “It’s not funny, Fabray.”   
  
“Actually, it  _is_  funny. You’re losing to Finn Hudson.  _Finn Hudson_. He’s a-a, Potato Head.”   
  
She reaches behind her, finds the small pillow on the chair and throws it in Quinn’s direction. It misses by a foot or so, but Quinn shuts her mouth long enough for Santana get a word in. “I have this plan, actually. And since you never got me a birthday present, I figure you owe me one.”   
  
The blonde frowns at her and stares pointedly at Santana’s clean, bright white-tipped All-Stars.   
  
Santana ignores her. “All you have to do is distract The Ogre for me and then I can do something to get the cash. It’s a double payment, because they missed last week too,” Santana muses, mostly to herself. “But you!” She points at Quinn who cringes and sinks back into the couch. “You can distract him. Flirt with him, toss your hair, hike up your skirt a little, actually, maybe you should let me dress you, just this once, but…” Santana grinned and pillowed her hands behind her head on the edge of the chair. “I’m brilliant. You date the Cabbage Patch Kid and I’ll get my money.”   
  
Quinn shakes her head slowly, her cheeks a furious red color. “I’m not going near him with a ten-foot pole.”   
  
“Yeah, but he lives in the neighborhood that Puck runs,” Santana taunts, watching the red of Quinn’s cheeks fade to a light pink. She smirks because she knows she’s got Quinn hooked and all she has to do is reel her in. Since the first night Quinn managed to talk Santana into bringing her out with Jesse and Puck and Chang the dancing Asian, all Quinn could gush about was Noah Puckerman and his arms and his cockiness. “ _His cockiness,_ ” Santana had teased. “ _Sure_.” Quinn had squealed and hit Santana a few times with a pillow. The blonde had sat down with a dreamy expression on her face, because if anything, Quinn was a romantic and they’d just done a marathon weekend of those old 80’s movies with Mrs. Fabray – who cried at the end of each one – and Quinn had liked that the redhead, pretty girl had ended up making out with that badass in flannel in a supply closet. And when she Puck at the convenience store, Santana knew that dreamy look in Quinn’s eyes – it was the same one she got whenever Richard Gere told Julia Roberts he was in love with her.   
  
“And think about it,” Santana continues. “You ‘date’ Finn Hudson and your dad will stop being on your case all the time. He’ll think, well now you have a respectable young man. He won’t have to worry about the reason you hang around with me so much is because you really just want to sneak a peek at Puckerman’s abs all the time.”   
  
Quinn tucks her chin against her shoulder and looks out the large picture window in the living room of the Fabray’s house. Being in here always hurts Santana’s eyes – it’s too bright and too happy and just too much. She likes the darkness of her house, and the calm feeling she gets when she walks in the door of being surrounded by nothing but shadows. It’s comforting, in a way, that she doesn’t have to squint into the sunlight coming through a large window and reflecting off the coffee table – she doesn’t  _have_  a large window, but that’s beside the point.   
  
In a way, the darkness of her house is comforting; if too much light were to stream through the window she doesn’t have, it would probably show the things she can’t clean up every night before she goes to sleep: the dust on the picture frames no one has touched in years, that one lone beer can that’s rolled under the couch and stuck there, the lines on her mother’s face, the hollow look in her mother’s eyes.   
  
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Quinn says quietly. Except that she’s not looking at Santana and that’s a sure sign that  _no_ , it’s not a good idea, but Quinn definitely wants to do it anyway.   
  
Grinning, Santana pushes onto her knees and scoots across the freshly-waxed hardwood floor, the tops of her new birthday Converse scuffing along as she goes, until she’s wrapping her hands around Quinn’s knees and sliding them up the blonde’s thighs, lifting her body up and over the lip of the couch. She sprawls out next to Quinn, half of her body draping across her best friend’s.   
  
“You’re the best.”   
  
Quinn sighs, exhaling directly into Santana’s face. “You’re a pain in the ass.”   
  
Santana hums under her breath, smirking as she closes her eyes, kicking her feet up and onto the coffee table. The glass shakes a little under her heels and Quinn grumbles in her ear that if there’s a crack, her mother will know  _exactly_  who’s responsible.   
  
“Shut up,” she murmurs back. “You’re gonna wear my skirt for your date. Can’t have you looking too much like the minister’s daughter.”   
  
Quinn jabs her in the ribs but Santana is too damn comfortable to care.  
  
\---   
  
Santana looks over at the driver’s seat and scowls, propping her elbow up in the open window.   
  
“Stop looking at me like that,” Jesse says over the music.   
  
“Well, then turn this crap off,” Santana says, reaching forward anyway and turning the dial all the way down; the sound of the musical from the scratchy speaker system is going to make her ears bleed. “I don’t even want to be here.” She sneaks a peek in the side view mirror and scowls again. “Why is  _she_  here?”   
  
Jesse smirks at the rearview mirror and Santana hears the leather of the backseat squeak as Berry moves around in her skirt, probably to sit up and grin back at Jesse.   
  
“She’s off limits, St. James.”   
  
Jesse rolls his eyes at Santana. “She’s just coming along for the ride,  _Lopez_. ‘Sides,” he says out of the corner of his mouth, eyes still locked on the rearview. “She’s into me.”   
  
“I can hear you,” Berry chirps from the backseat. “And while I’m flattered, I’m not putting out in the backseat of this… car. But thank you, Santana, for being concerned for my well-being.”   
  
Santana turns in her seat and makes a face. “The only well-being I’m concerned about is my own if your test-tube mom finds out I let Mr. Smooth over here work his way into your toddler skirt. There’s no way in  _hell_  I’m concerned about  _you_ , Dwarf.”   
  
Berry’s smile dims a little, but it doesn’t disappear completely and Santana faces front again, punching Jesse in the shoulder when she sees he’s still not looking at the road.   
  
“She’s here because I’m here and I’m here because Shelby thinks you need a little help,” Jesse says, finally pulling his eyes from Berry’s reflection.   
  
“I don’t need help.”   
  
Jesse goes silent and Berry stops shifting and with no music playing, Santana can practically  _hear_  the “ _oh yes you do_ ” that no one is saying out loud, but she’s not kidding. She doesn’t really need help, because she’s already got a plan. Jesse just showed up a day early. If he had just waited – if Shelby had waited, just another day, then Santana wouldn’t need help from the Baby Yeti. She’s got Quinn waiting in the wings with her bows in her hair and her saddle shoes shined to death and her yellow sundress that Santana matched to her blonde hair.   
  
Santana Lopez has a plan; it’s a little unsettling that people doubt that she can handle this.   
  
Now, she’s just going to look ridiculous, showing up two days in a row all because Shelby thinks she needs a babysitter.   
  
They pull up to the house and Jesse puts the car in park. The door looks brighter than it did the last time and Santana notices that the block of navy under the door has been painted over. She pushes open the car door, not leaning the passenger seat forward so Berry can get out and slams it shut again as she glares at Jesse. “Stay in the car,” she says firmly.   
  
She climbs the steps and knocks once, stuffing her hands in her pockets and exhaling slowly through her nose. Setting her mouth in a firm line, she presses the doorbell and holds it down, listening to the echoing ring play over and over. When the door is yanked open her scowl is in place and even when Kathryn looks up at her and smiles so wide Santana is afraid her little face is going to split, she doesn’t waver.   
  
“I need to talk to your sister,” she says, just shy of snapping.   
  
It’s like watching a car wreck in slow motion, the way the smile slides off Kathryn’s face in stages until her eyes are wide and glassy and her mouth is forming a crooked O-shape, her lower lip trembling. Santana doesn’t have time to move away before the little girl lets out a sob and throws her arms around Santana’s legs, clutching them as she buries her face in Santana’s dirty jeans.   
  
Santana was this little once. She wasn’t like Kathryn, in her big, colorful dress-up jewelry, stomping around in too-big high heels and hats sliding down over her eyes; she wore dirt-stained jeans and baseball caps to keep her eyes clear and an old Red Sox t-shirt that once belonged to her dad that her mom had shrunk by accident. She was little once, though, and on the playground she had been pushed around by the bigger kids who thought she was baby. She remembers coming home, tears burning in her eyes and the insults stinging under the skin where no band-aid or tissue could reach. She remembers doing this: wrapping her arms around her mother’s legs, pressing her face into the soft material of her mother’s skirts and inhaling the smell of cinnamon. She remembers her mother reaching down and hoisting her up, making her face the world with tears on her cheeks and anger in her eyes, so when she reaches down and hooks her hands under Kathryn’s arms, it’s instinct.   
  
She’s sure, that when Kathryn curls into her, tucking her head under Santana’s chin and her fingers pulling on Santana’s hair, it’s instinct.   
  
Looking over her shoulder, she sees Rachel has moved into the passenger seat and she’s grinning at Jesse and neither of them are paying attention to her, so she hikes Kathryn up higher and tightens the grip she has on the little girl and shoulders the door open, kicking it shut behind her.   
  
Her neck is wet – tears, snot, who knows – but she climbs around some leftover boxes and into the kitchen. She stands in the middle of the room like someone is going to come along and take this crying child from her arms, but a minute goes by and nothing happens. If anything, Kathryn takes a shuddering breath and lets out another sob.   
  
Santana can hear music floating, barely, through the kitchen and with each step closer to the staircase in the corner of the room, it gets louder. Kathryn still clinging to her, she climbs the stairs and moves down the hall until she’s standing in front of a door the same color as the front – red and bright and too, too happy. Her hands are full so she settles for kicking the base of the door, wincing a little when her shoes scuff the paint job. She kicks harder and the door just pops open.   
  
The room is yellow – yellow like Quinn’s sundress; yellow like the sun that reflects through the Fabray’s window – and Santana isn’t prepared for the brightness, and the light. She squints in, eyes slowly adjusting to the sight and sees a bed, a dresser, a stereo and its buttons flashing at her, showing her the bass level of the song playing.   
  
“Hey,” she growls over the sound of some type of string instrument being plucked mercilessly. “Hey!”   
  
The taller blonde – the name comes instantly: Brittany – dances out of the closet, moving steadily on the tips of her pointed toes, her arms in a perfectly-proportioned circle in front of her, her body bending at the waist. Her arms sweep down, her fingertips grazing the floor and she pivots, one leg raised high behind her.   
  
Santana can’t explain the reason she stops shouting  _hey_  or why her jaw drops a little, but she’s mesmerized. She’s never seen anyone dance like this. Sure, every other year or so, she tags along with the Fabray’s to sit in an overly-crowded, hot, sticky auditorium and wait an hour and a half just to see Quinn on stage in sequins and tap shoes for all of three minutes. And there were a few dances that looked a little like this, but Santana was always too busy laughing at the tutus – and being scowled at furiously by Mrs. Fabray – to really pay attention to the movement.   
  
Now that it’s in front of her, life-size, Santana can see the curve of the arch of Brittany’s foot and the steady calf muscle and the way she leans forward, her leg lifting higher than Santana’s head.   
  
In her arms, Kathryn rubs the point of her nose against Santana’s shoulder and shifts, looping her arms loosely around Santana’s neck, sniffling as she watches her older sister dance in front of them, her mouth quirking up a little. The little girl starts to smile as the music suddenly increases in tempo and Brittany moves faster, becoming a blur in a black leotard against the yellow walls.   
  
“Yay!” Kathryn shouts in her ear when the song ends.   
  
Brittany, her hands on her knees, panting down at the floor, looks up. She claps a hand to her chest and her eyes go wide, but as Santana watches them focus, the narrow as the blonde takes her in. “What’re you doing here?” She reaches her arms forward for Kathryn but the little girl is bouncing and clapping in Santana’s arms and misses the cue.   
  
“Don’t you watch her?” Santana snaps.   
 _  
So much for saying ‘hello’_ , she muses.   
  
The scowl on Brittany’s face fades a little and her eyes narrow again, this time in concern. “What happened? Is she okay?” The taller blonde reaches for her sister again, running her hand across Kathryn’s face. She frowns and pulls her hand back, rubbing her fingertips together. “She’s been crying.”   
  
Santana looks away from Kathryn at Brittany and shakes her head. “Don’t ask  _me_  why. Ask her.”   
  
Kathryn looks at both of them with solemn, wide eyes, and burrows into Santana’s neck again. “She wanted to talks to you,” Kathryn whispers.   
  
Judging by the look on Brittany’s face, Santana doesn’t think she understands either.   
  
“The way-way that man said he wanted to talks to you,” she continues whispering, her fingernails cutting into the skin above the hem of Santana’s neckline.   
  
Something clicks for Brittany that doesn’t click for Santana and then the taller blonde is pulling Kathryn out of Santana’s arms, cradling her and moving out of Santana’s reach. Santana’s arms hang awkwardly in the air for a moment before she puts them back down by her side, changing her mind and crossing them over her chest. She stands in the middle of the bright yellow room in her dirty jeans and her black-and-bleach-stained t-shirt and her too-new Converse and she feels out of place as Brittany rubs Kathryn’s back, completely ignoring her.   
  
“She’s not like the man,” Brittany says soothingly. “She was only pretending because she really needed to talk to me.  _Right,_  Lopez?” Brittany glares at her.   
  
Santana swallows heavily. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” she finally manages to say. She forces her hand into her pocket instead of reaching for the little girl.   
  
“See, Kathryn? She was just playing pretend.”   
  
Kathryn smiles shyly at Santana. “She’s silly.”   
  
“She’s something,” Brittany mutters, shaking her head. Santana watches her grip on Kathryn turn and then they’re spinning across the floor wildly, laughing loudly. They dance around Santana in circles until Brittany drops Kathryn onto the bed, falling down beside her and laughing.   
  
Santana isn’t uncomfortable; she’s invisible.   
  
Kathryn rolls off the bed and tugs on Santana’s t-shirt, smiling up at her. “Will you play with me tomorrow? I have lots of Barbies.”   
  
She’s saved from saying  _no_  by Brittany, who taps Kathryn on the top of the head. “Why don’t you play with the dolls in your room so I can talk to this one over here, okay?” she says, gesturing towards Santana.   
  
Kathryn nods and presses her hand quickly against Santana’s leg, grinning as she skips from the room. Brittany watches the door as it closes and Santana braces herself for screaming or a slap across the face but the blonde sighs and her shoulders drop instead.   
  
“You can’t go saying things like that to her.” Brittany sighs again. “I should stop letting her answer the door.”   
  
Santana nods. “You…” she trails off when Brittany’s head turns sharply and the blonde narrows blue eyes at her. “Right,” she murmurs to herself. She wants to ask why Kathryn freaked out on her. She wanted to ask where the blonde learned to dance like that. She wants to ask a million different questions and none at the tip of her tongue are  _where’s my money?_    
  
Brittany sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the bedroom door with a look on her face that Santana doesn’t think fits – something like sadness, or another one of those SAT words Quinn keeps shoving down her throat. Santana puts her hands in her pockets, takes them out, flexes them and does it again a few times.   
  
A honk breaks the silence – Jesse must have gotten tired of Berry’s incessant Broadway rambling,  _except_ , Santana thinks,  _he’s into that same kind of crap_ , so maybe they just finished making out and they’re getting impatient. It breaks whatever spell they’ve fallen under, anyway, and Brittany stands up to cross the room, pulling back one of the yellow curtains and peering down into the street.   
  
“Looks like your friends are looking for you,” she says, her voice hard again, like the Brittany from twenty minutes ago.   
  
Santana feels like a jerk – she’s not sure  _why_ , because she doesn’t do feeling, especially not ones like that – and she scuffs the front of her shoe against the floor, kicking at the planks of wood beneath her feet.   
  
To her relief, Brittany gets the hint. She turns and stares at Santana blankly before moving again, pushing past Santana, knocking their shoulders together. It throws Santana off-balance, but she catches herself and follows Brittany, down the hall and into a bedroom at the far end. She leans in the doorway, hands shoved in her pocket, watching Brittany rifle through the dresser drawers. She can hear Kathryn talking to her dolls, telling Ken to ask his friend Steven to the prom and she smirks a little, her head turned away from Brittany so she can hear a little better.   
  
She lets out a  _whoosh_  of air as a pair of hands push into her stomach.   
  
“Take it,” Brittany says, her voice devoid of any emotion. “Just take it and go. Just  _go_.” The blonde sighs. “Just go and never, ever knock on the door again. I’ll leave the money in the mailbox. You can get it on Tuesdays.” She looks past Santana down the hall. “I want you to stay away, okay? So, just… just take it and leave us alone.”   
  
The rational part of Santana’s brain is saying to check the wad of cash in her hand. A small, Shelby-like voice in the back of her head is warning her, “ _She’ll screw you if you’re not careful, Lopez_ ” but Santana nods hard enough to shake the voice out and puts the money in her pocket. The bigger part of her brain is trying to process why Brittany looking at her like she’s something inhumane, some type of monster, is bothering her as much as it is.   
  
This time, she lets herself out of the house, pulling the door closed slowly, staring down at the sidewalk. Jesse is leaning against the hood of the car, smirking at Rachel, sitting next to him, swinging her legs back and forth in a  _I totally let him touch my boobs and I liked it_  kind of way. Santana makes a half-hearted attempt to roll her eyes and it falls short, but she pushes Jesse to make up for it, and, off-balance, he skids across the waxed hood of the car.   
  
“You could have just said you wanted to leave,” he murmurs.   
  
Santana ignores him and almost pushes Rachel into the backseat of the car when the shorter girl takes too long holding the edges of her shirt down against the slight breeze. She slams the seat back in place and pulls the door shut violently, staring up at the window she now knows looks into Brittany’s bedroom.   
  
“Let’s go,” she instructs.   
  
Jesse starts the car, putting it into drive and revving the engine down the street. “Did you get-”   
  
“Just  _go_ ,” Santana growls. “Just go.”


	3. Part 3

Hudson – for all the “I’m Untouchable” headaches he causes her – really helps her out more than Santana cares to admit; just makes her job too easy sometimes.   
  
He’s ambling along the street, headed, probably, in the same direction as Santana isn’t supposed to be going in, because it isn’t Tuesday yet. They see each other at the same time and Quinn is the kind of person who drives close to the sidewalk –  _and slow enough, for God’s sake_  - so that Santana gets the chance to stick her head out at him and watch him scowl back at her.  
  
“God,” Quinn mutters, glancing at him. “I’m so glad I don’t need to be a part of that half-assed plan you thought up.”  
  
Santana frowns. “It wasn’t half-assed. It was pure gold.”  
  
Quinn snorts and turns a corner. Santana doesn’t know why, but she doesn’t tell Quinn to turn around, that the grocery store that sells the chicken stock Mrs. Fabray wants is ten blocks the other way. “Sure it was,” Quinn says. As they pull up to a stop sign, she turns, confused. “Why  _don’t_  you need me anymore?”  
  
“I got the money, that’s why.” Santana cracks her knuckles.  
  
“Yeah, but-”  
  
“Oh, c’mon,” Santana grounds out. “If you want in Puck’s pants that badly, you don’t need Hudson to make it happen.”  
  
Quinn blushes and Santana watches as her knuckles flush white where she grips the steering wheel. “I don’t want  _in Puck’s pants_ , okay? I’m just curious.”  
  
“Yeah. Curious as to whether he goes commando or not,” Santana mutters to herself. “I went by yesterday and got the money. I’ll pick it up every week on Tuesdays. That’s why you don’t need to stick your tongue down Hudson’s throat.”  
  
The blush on Quinn’s cheeks pales. “Thank God,” she murmurs.  
  
Idling at another stop sign while Ryerson crosses the street, holding what looks like a doll under his arm, Hudson manages to pass their car and takes the steps up to the bright red door two at a time. It’s pulled open almost instantly and Santana can only assume, with the way Hudson drops his head and bends his knees a little, that it’s Kathryn at the door.  
  
Santana panics. She’s not sure why, but maybe it’s greed. Maybe she doesn’t want to know that Kathryn is smiling that smile at  _Finn Hudson_ , of all people. Maybe it’s just that she hasn’t hit anyone – really hit anyone – since Jesse had her rough up a guy who said some not-so-nice things about Shelby and she’s got a lot of built up aggression she could attempt to take out on Hudson, verbally at least.  
  
Whatever the reason, she’s pulling off her seatbelt and reaching over, turning the key and shutting the car off.  
  
“Santana!”  
  
She flips the keys back at Quinn, who gets out and rounds the front of the car as Santana slams her door shut and crosses the street onto the sidewalk.  
  
“We’re parked in the middle of the street,” Quinn shouts, following her.  
  
Santana pulls up short at the bottom of the stoop, arms crossed over her chest. Hudson turns to look at her, scowling before seeing Quinn over her shoulder. He perks up, straightening his wide shoulders and grinning pathetically. Kathryn smiles wider though, her whole body leaning towards Santana. Quinn steps up behind her, a hand pressing painfully against the small of her back, pinching hard.  
  
“Hi!” Kathryn shouts. Hudson kind of flinches a bit but Santana smirks. “Come up here, come up! Brittany says I can’t goes past the front stair.”  
  
Quinn’s hand presses harder against her back but Santana ignores the pressure and leaps up a few stairs, perching on the side of the railing. Quinn follows reluctantly, sitting on the edge precariously, giving a small smile back to Hudson who runs his hand through his hair nervously. Kathryn moves away from the door and stands in front of Santana, wobbling in her lime green heels. She lifts out of one shoe and tilts back, putting her tiny foot on the top of Santana’s knee.  
  
“Purple. This little piggy is purple and this little piggy is blue,” the little girl says seriously, wiggling each toe appropriately. “This little piggy is orange, this little piggy is too!”  
  
Santana smirks, but Hudson leans down and pokes at Kathryn’s pinky toe. “You missed one.”  
  
Kathryn turns to look at him, eyes narrowed. “I did it on pru-per… I did it that way.”  
  
Before Santana can snicker at Hudson, a blonde woman is standing in the doorway, smiling softly at them. “Hey, Kathryn. Who are all your friends?”  
  
The little girl spins and rocks to one side but Santana catches her by the elbows. “This is Santana-nana,” she announces, looking at Quinn and Hudson and frowning. “I don’t know them.”  
  
Hudson sticks out his big meaty hand and smiles what he thinks must be a charming smile. “Finn Hudson, ma’am. You must be Brittany’s aunt.”  
  
Santana wonders why she’s not meeting Brittany’s mom, but before she has a chance to think about it too much, Quinn – in her Sunday school-like outfit with her perfectly combed hair – is already introducing herself and Brittany’s aunt is turned towards her.  
  
She’s uncomfortable again, one hand smoothing down the persistent wrinkle in her t-shirt that she’s been wearing since yesterday, the other hanging limply in the air between Brittany’s aunt and herself. “Lopez,” she manages to say. “Santana Lopez.”  
  
“I said that,” Kathryn pouts. “And they’re not  _my_ friends. They’re Brittbees.”  
  
The smile on Brittany’s aunt’s face widens and she steps back across the threshold, calling Brittany’s name into the house. Santana’s hand bunches up the end of her shirt and a sharp elbow hits her in the spine when her leg starts to tap against the concrete stairs.   
  
“Oh, relax,” Quinn mutters.  
  
There’s another flash of panic, and her free hand grips the bottom of Quinn’s sweater. “The plan’s back on,” she hisses.  
  
Quinn’s eyes widen, flickering over to Hudson. “No.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Kathryn leans against Santana’s leg and grins up at her. “Yes.”  
  
Santana points at the kid and smirks at Quinn. “Yes.”  
  
Quinn rolls her eyes and plants her hands on her hips and gives Santana an  _you so owe me_  look, but nods as the bright red door is pulled open even more.  
  
Brittany blinks a few times, the smile from seeing Hudson fading a little as she scans the stoop, locking eyes briefly with Santana. “Uh, hey,” she says slowly. “What’s going on?”  
  
Brittany’s aunt smiles even wider. “Your friends came over to hang out.”  
  
Santana can see the words forming in the bow of Brittany’s mouth:  _these aren’t my friends_  but then she’s smiling – if somewhat forced – and nodding slowly. “Yeah. Actually,” she drags out slowly. “I think we’re going to go somewhere else. Maybe… bowling?”  
  
When it becomes apparent that Hudson is too busy looking between the two blonde girls and Santana is staring coolly ahead, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world – and she’s really clenching one fist so tightly in her pants pocket that she can feel her fingernails cutting into the skin of her palm as the other nervously works the fabric of her shirt into a knot – Quinn sighs and smiles patiently, projecting her etiquette lessons perfectly. “Bowling. There’s an alley just on the other side of the North End.” Quinn wrinkles her nose and out of the corner of her eye, Santana sees Hudson’s eyes linger on the shorter of the blondes before flickering back to Brittany. “They have light up lanes.”  
  
Brittany smiles brightly, catching Santana’s attention, but when the blonde realizes that Santana is watching her, she scowls briefly before smiling, a little more dim, at her aunt. “So, that’s where we’ll be, if you need me.”  
  
Brittany’s aunt is already shaking her head, curling her fingers around Brittany’s elbow and pushing her towards the stairs. Stepping over Hudson’s foot, Brittany sways a bit and grabs at Santana’s side to steady herself. A cool hand presses against the skin Santana has exposed as she twists her shirt in her hand and she shivers, her own hand letting go of her shirt to grab at Brittany’s arm. The blonde ducks her head and Santana feels Brittany breathe against her cheek, warm and close.  
  
There’s the panic again, flaring up in her face and booming against her ribcage. Her fingers press lightly into Brittany’s arm and something flutters in her stomach when the blonde’s hand flexes against her stomach in response. She takes a shallow breath but it catches in her throat and Santana chokes on it, her windpipe closing up. Brittany’s hand clenches against her side again and it pushes all the air in Santana’s throat up against the roof of her mouth and she sputters, leaning back away from Brittany.  
  
The hand abruptly disappears and Brittany is climbing the rest of the way down the stairs, Hudson at her heels like a puppy that just won’t quit. Kathryn pokes her in the leg and Santana jerks to attention, her mouth dry.  
  
“There they go,” Kathryn says, pointing down the stairs. Brittany’s aunt smiles at her and shoos her away. Santana launches down the stairs, falling into step with Quinn.  
  
Her best friend scoffs under her breath. “That wasn’t weird, or anything.”  
  
“Shut up,” Santana growls, hands forced into her pocket tightly. Her shoulders are hunched up and over and her head is down, eyes lingering along Brittany’s calf as the taller girl walks in front of them, the muscle sliding up and down. “Just do your thing.”  
  
Quinn bristles. “My  _thing_.”  
  
“Yeah,  _Madonna_ ,” Santana hisses back, aware of Hudson’s hulking figure in front of her, waving his arms wildly as he explains something to Brittany. “Unbutton your sweater, show a little shoulder. Get his goddamn attention.”  
  
Quinn stops, pulling Santana around by the elbow. “Listen,  _whore_ ,” she mocks. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I will not ‘show a little shoulder’.” Quinn’s forehead wrinkles as she frowns. “Beside the fact that I have no idea what the hell you’re trying to imply by that, you need to get yourself together. You’re a train wreck.”  
  
She’s not really a train wreck. She was a train wreck as a kid, all flailing arms and more anger at a man she once loved more than her tiny body could hold. She was a train wreck first day of freshman year, suddenly without Jesse by her side for the first time in a while, overwhelmed with no one to talk to, no one to punch. She was a train wreck when she found her mother catatonic in front of the television for the first time, screaming at a woman who couldn’t hear her, ending up at the Fabray’s with swollen eyes and a hoarse throat.  
  
Santana isn’t a train wreck. Not yet. Right now, she’s just building up speed. She’s a train car that’s just pushing the limit, just flirting with that edge of danger she could, but won’t yet, cross. She’ll miss a key turn soon and start to lose control and if no one is there to pull her back and set her down on the right track,  _then_  she’ll crash and burn and _then_  she’ll be a wreck.  
  
Quinn knows that, too.  
  
“I’m together,” she lies. “Just do me this one favor, okay?”  
  
“I’m always doing you favors, Lopez,” Quinn sighs, but she’s shaking her head in a way that  _looks_  like ‘no’ but really means ‘yes’.  
  
Santana breathes out a sigh of relief that’s been bubbling up inside of her. It feels foreign as it passes over her tongue and escapes between her lips, because Santana Lopez doesn’t sigh in relief. She sighs in resignation when she can’t make her mother get out of her father’s armchair. She sighs in disgust as Jesse drives the long way to his route when he picks her up from school so they can pass by Carmel High so he can relive his glory moments. She sighs in anger whenever someone like Puck has something go wrong and she knows she could have done it better.  
  
But Santana Lopez doesn’t sigh in relief because she got her best friend to flirt with the Neanderthal so she could be alone with Brittany.  
  
Hudson is suddenly towering over them, frowning. “Everything okay?”  
  
Santana follows his line of sight and immediately let’s go of Quinn’s sweater, smoothing it down. Quinn’s hands still hers and Santana takes a step back, sliding her hands out from under Quinn’s and into the pockets of her jeans. “Everything’s fine,” she huffs. “My bad, Q.”  
  
Quinn’s bemused smile widens into a grin. “Don’t worry about it, hot stuff. I already knew you wanted me.”  
  
Quinn’s eyes are sparkling, the way they did a few years ago when Santana had snuck into Quinn’s room, a little wobbly and a little drunk. “Get away from the window,” Quinn had hissed. “What’re you so happy about? Are you?” Quinn had leaned forward and sniffed delicately. “You’re drunk!”  
  
Santana had grinned. “Jesse’s friend, from school.” She spun in a circle and landed on the bed, face-up. “She let me get to second base.”  
  
Quinn raised one perfectly-sculpted eyebrow. “Second base, huh?”  
  
“Over the bra, but still,” Santana sighed wistfully. “Under the shirt.”  
  
The blonde made a noise in the back of her throat and laid down next to Santana, staring up at the ceiling. Santana saw her arch her neck back and heard her ask, “Boobs, huh?” Santana rolled suddenly, her upper body pressed against the side of Quinn’s arm as she walked her fingers across Quinn’s stomach.  
  
“Boobs,” Santana repeated. “They were nice.” She cocked her head to the side. “Kind of like yours. But  _better_.”  
  
The blonde had huffed and pushed Santana’s hand away, scowling. She chuckled and followed when Quinn squirmed away, toeing her ratty, mud-caked, ripped-up Converse off. They had hit the floor with a dull thud as she shimmied up enough to slide under the covers of Quinn’s bed. The blonde rolled her eyes but didn’t protest when Santana threw an arm across her stomach, cuddling closer. She had nudged her nose along Quinn’s jaw line for attention and whispered, “Your boobs are really nice. Nicer than hers. I’ll touch them if you want.”  
  
Quinn had snorted and shook her head and Santana had pulled back just enough to see Quinn’s face. “No. Keep your hands to yourself,” she had chastised, but her eyes were sparkling and when Santana had slipped one hand under Quinn’s nightshirt and pressed it against her hipbone, the blonde had only murmured, “ _that tickles_ ” and gone to sleep.  
  
“I don’t,” Santana scoffs. She glances at Hudson. “I  _don’t_ ” she stage-whispers.  
  
Quinn smiles up at Finn, tucking her hand delicately around the crook of his elbow. “Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, is it Finn?”  
  
Hudson frowns. “There’s a river in Egypt?”  
  
At the next crosswalk, Quinn takes a few quick steps and pulls ahead, Hudson beaming down at her as he rambles off his accomplishments on the field. Santana sidles up next to Brittany. “The only thing he’s ‘accomplished’ on the field is not getting himself killed.”  
  
There’s a pause before Brittany looks at Santana with an “ _Oh, you’re talking to_  me” look on her face. “What?”  
  
“The only thing he’s accomplished on the field is being able to walk off it at the end of the… game,” Santana repeats, the words trailing off at the end, because Brittany’s look is now something between “ _Do I look like I care_ ” and “ _I heard you the first time, ignored you, and you’re not getting it_.”  
  
Brittany stares at her. “Was that supposed to be funny?”  
  
Santana feels her face get hot and her hands tighten in her pockets. If this was Puck, or Berry, or even Jesse, she might deck them for being rude. But Brittany’s looking down, watching the way Santana’s pocket moves as she clenches and unclenches her fists and Santana doesn’t want to hit this girl; she never has and that makes Santana want to hit someone else, because it doesn’t make sense.  
  
There’s always something about everyone she’s met that digs under her skin and  _ignites_  her: Puck’s smirk, Berry’s vocabulary, Jesse’s natural tendency to assume he’s better than her, Schuester’s hair, Hudson’s  _everything_ , even Quinn, sometimes, when her hair has the stupid braid in it and she’s giving Santana the patented Fabray look of disapproval. There are just little things in the people she knows that she can’t see past the red, hot swell of anger.  
  
She knows what her problems are – impulse control, anger, Daddy issues .She’s heard them muttered behind her back by teachers, the guys who work at headquarters, and the people she takes money from. They say that she never had anyone to teach her right from wrong; that her mom is worthless and can’t teach her manners. She hears them say, “ _If only that poor girl had some parents who cared_ ” like that’s the reason she’s a troublemaker, a nuisance, a problem – all everybody else’s words. She knows what they diagnose her with and some of them might be right – she has issues with authority figures, for sure – but most of them dismiss her without a second though.  
  
Brittany dismissed her that first time, without even asking anything about her.   
  
It bothered her more than Santana would like to admit.  
  
“Guess it wasn’t,” she finally says, her tightened jaw relaxing as her hands flatten in her pocket.  
  
“You made fun of someone. It’s not really funny.”  
  
Santana scoffs. “It’s  _Hudson_. Everything about that… mammoth is a joke.”  
  
Brittany looks at Hudson and tilts her head a little. “I’m almost as tall is he is.”  
  
“But it’s different.”  
  
Brittany looks at her sharply. “Why?”   
  
Santana gets caught in between shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head and ends up just settling for gritting her teeth and muttering, “Because you’re different.”  
  
Quinn saves her from Brittany asking “ _why?_ ” again, throwing an arm across Santana’s shoulders and pinching her cheek. “Cut it out,  _grandma_ ” she hisses.  
  
Her best friend ignores her and looks past Santana at Brittany. “Want to play teams? Me and Finn against the two of you?”  
  
Brittany looks mildly amused; Hudson looks excited. “Oh,” Brittany says, a faint smile on her lips. “We’re really going bowling?”  
  
Wiggling out of Quinn’s grasp, Santana smoothes down her t-shirt and frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. “Did you not want to?”  
  
She hates that she sounds offended, but she looks at Brittany expectantly, waiting for an answer. The blonde looks more amused, her smile widening a little. “It was kind of a ‘go with the flow’ thing, really. I mean, Finn and I had plans…”  
  
Hudson’s head jerks up as if he just remembered that. “Yeah. I was gonna take you…” His shoulders slump. “Bowling.” He looks down sheepishly and Santana smirks at Quinn. “I was gonna take you bowling and then for a slice of pizza.”  
  
Quinn touches Hudson’s elbow. “Mind if we join you guys? I mean,” she reasons, sidling closer to the boy, “we’re already here. It could be fun. Losers have to buy pizza. What do you think?”  
  
“Sure,” he says. He glances at Brittany. “If it’s okay with you, Britt.”  
  
The taller blonde shrugs her shoulders and pulls open the door of the small bowling alley, the smell of old feet and greasy pizza wafting out onto the sidewalk. Santana coughs into her hand and follows Brittany, jogging a few steps to catch up, standing next to the blonde as they wait in line.  
  
“You mad?”  
  
Brittany frowns. “Why would I be mad?”  
  
“For ruining your date with the Nean- with Hudson,” she says, correcting herself as Brittany’s eyes narrow. “Crashing it and all.”  
  
“What do you care?” Brittany asks. It’s not a vicious question, but it’s a curious and honest one.  
  
Santana doesn’t have an honest answer so she settles for making a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat and grunting an “ _eight_ ” at the boy behind the counter who hands her a pair of scuffed, fading bowling shoes, holding it delicately between his forefinger and thumb. She doesn’t blame him. These shoes are all kinds of gross and Santana is sure that the chick who owns it – some wino not much taller than Berry – doesn’t even really spray the disinfectant in them like she’s supposed to. She takes the shoes anyway, following Quinn and Hudson to the last lane and sliding the shoes on, pulling the Velcro tight.  
  
It’s going fine – as fine as it can with Hudson tossing the ball two lanes over every third time and Quinn giggling like a preschooler at all his lame jokes and Brittany being scarily accurate with the ball – until Santana throws a strike and Hudson makes a smart-ass comment, because she’s finally pulled ahead in the standings.  
  
“Your mom,” she throws back at him, rolling her eyes. Quinn shakes her head - it’s a lame comeback, Santana knows.  
  
But then Hudson – whose chest puffs out and face flushes in embarrassment – crosses his big arms over his chest and glares down at her and opens his big, dumb mouth. “ _Your_ mom. Has she come out into the sunlight yet, or did she finally lock herself in the basement where you couldn’t get to her?” he hisses.  
  
She’s moving to punch him before she even registers it, one fist raised in the air above her head while the other hangs lower, ready to deliver the second punch to the gut. Hudson jumps back, colliding with the ball rack and falling over it. Santana tries to follow him but Quinn is suddenly in front of her, pushing at her shoulders hard, catching Santana off balance. She stumbles back a few feet – enough for Hudson to stand up and move further back, rubbing at the back of his head.  
  
“Corcoran’ll have your head for trying that,” he says boldly as he takes another few steps back.  
  
Santana doesn’t struggle against Quinn – sure, sometimes she wants to knock the self-assured smirk off Quinn’s pretty little face, but she’d never actually do it. She leans forward around Quinn’s shoulder and hisses, “ _I’ll_  have your-”  
  
Quinn pushes her again, back towards the door, not stopping until the small of Santana’s back connects with the ‘push’ bar of the front door and then she’s tumbling out into the street, her metal heels of her bowling shoes clacking against the cement sidewalk. She thinks, over the sound of her heavy breathing and the roar in her ears, that someone is calling after her – maybe Quinn, probably not Brittany – but she can’t hang around. She’s too angry, too impulsive, too likely to attempt a roundhouse kick to Hudson’s face.  
  
So she takes off, cutting down Lansing and running through Crosstown until she’s at her front door, hand on the knob, bent over and panting.  
  
Except she doesn’t want to go home when there’s no one to really go home to. She doesn’t want to go inside where her mother is just sitting in the same place Santana left her that morning, in the living room waiting for a husband, a father, who never plans on returning. She doesn’t want to watch her mother become a ghost. She doesn’t want to throw more food into the garbage and cross another day off her calendar.  
  
She lets go of the door knob and goes back down the stairs, staring up at the fading 55 over the door.  
  
Santana remembered having Jesse hang it up for her. Her mom had still been smiling, then, or at least doing a damn good job of pretending to. Santana had found an old ladder in the basement and dragged it up the rickety steps into the kitchen, scraping up the floor as she pulled it outside. She tried first, to hang the numbers herself while her mom worked an extra shift at the diner down the block. But she wasn’t tall enough at ten – still isn’t, at sixteen, without standing on the highest rung of the ladder – so she sat on the steps with her chin in her hands until Jesse had shown up, the way he always did when she needed him to, and laughed, hauling the crudely painted numbers up, patiently letting Santana bark orders at him from below: “too high!” she’d shouted. “Too low. No, to the right. The  _other_  right. Man,” she’d grumbled. “Aren’t you supposed to be smart, or suttin’?”  
  
The numbers had been brighter against the white of the house. But the paint on both had faded: the red was chipping off around the bend of the fives and the white of the house was a dirtyish grey. Kind of like her mom, she muses. She has the sudden urge to reach up there and rip the numbers off the house. They don’t have a reason to be up there. No one comes looking for them because everyone knows everybody here;  _he_  isn’t going to come look for them.  
  
It’s a pipe dream. It’ll always be a pipe dream. And if Santana’s learned anything, it’s that  _dreams_  are only there to soothe you enough so that when the nightmares come, you’re not expecting it.  
  
She sits down on the bottom step of her stoop, dropping her chin into her hands, elbows pressing into her knees. She wishes she still had her ball cap; she would pull it down over her eyes to keep the world out.  
  
Santana sits on the bottom step of her stoop and wonders if Jesse will come by and pick her up if she waits long enough.  
  
\---  
  
On Monday, she shoulders her way through the girls crowding the door at the end of the school day, sneering back at Mercedes Jones, the self-proclaimed Queen Bee, who doesn’t glare back, but doesn’t back down either. She breaks through their pack of loud, obnoxious giggling and pulls shorts because that’s not Jesse’s Mustang parked at the front curb, waiting for her.  
  
It’s Shelby’s black Mustang – and why everyone drives Mustangs, she’s not sure, but if that’s the company car, she wants one.  
  
The back of her neck feels hot and she pulls at the collar of her t-shirt, ignoring the small tearing sound of the fabric she hears as she tugs a little too hard. Shelby glides out of the driver’s seat and around the car, opening the passenger door, extending a hand in Santana’s direction.  
  
“Jesse had an appointment,” she says as Santana slides into the buttery-soft leather seat. Shelby closes the door after her and Santana lets herself panic for the few seconds it takes for Shelby to round the front of the car and get back in. “Go ahead and put on whatever station you’d like,” she offers.  
  
Santana keeps her hands in her lap, twisting her fingers together.  
  
“Relax, Santana,” Shelby says a few minutes later. Santana lets her shoulders slump from their tense position and stretches her neck muscles, looking out the window. They’re not headed towards her house, or Jesse’s, and it doesn’t even look like they’re headed towards Shelby’s. “I’m not driving you somewhere remote just to kill you,” the older woman continues and Santana wonders if Shelby can read her mind. “I’d have someone else do it.”  
  
It’s supposed to be a joke and it breaks a little of the tension Santana is feeling, but not all of it. “Well, where are we going, then?”  
  
Shelby shrugs and flips her indicator up, turning left. “I figured we’d just drive for a bit.”  
  
“I got all the payments I missed,” Santana defends. “All the weeks I was behind. I got it.”  
  
“I know,” Shelby says, taking one hand off the wheel and patting Santana’s forearm. “You’re doing really well. Better than Jesse ever did.”  
  
They sit in silence and Santana watches the odometer tick off mile after mile. They’re getting further from Crosstown-Sheldon and closer to the city limits and it’s not until they pass the blocks that Jesse has taken over from Tanaka, which is the edge of the line of Shelby’s reign, that Santana starts to squirm a little in her seat.  
  
“I remember when you moved into the neighborhood,” Shelby says out of the blue. “You were… something. I was upset Jesse dragged you into all of this. You were the same age as Rachel, I told him. This isn’t a business for little girls.”  
  
Santana wants to ask if that’s why Shelby never lets Berry go out and try it herself, but Shelby pulls the car over and shuts off the engine.  
  
“I heard you threw a punch at Carole Hudson’s son,” Shelby says, her voice flat.  
  
“He had it coming,” Santana growls. She should have known he would have said something to someone about it, the cry baby.  
  
“What did he do, then?”  
  
Santana locks her jaw.  
  
“I’m going to find out what happened one way or the other, Santana. So either you can tell me or I can hear about it from him. Something tells me that you’re not going to like that if it happens.”  
  
“He’s not the only one without a dad you know,” Santana says suddenly. “Puck doesn’t have one. I don’t have one. Hudson isn’t the only kid whose daddy didn’t go to career day. But  _he’s_  the special one. And that’s shit.”  
  
Shelby clucks her tongue –  _so that’s where Berry gets it from_ , she thinks. “Do you remember, you and Finn used to be friends?”  
  
It feels like they’re having two different conversations and Santana isn’t following Shelby’s, but she figures she should try so she shrugs, and mutters a “ _yeah_ ” under her breath.  
  
She does remember. She remembers how Hudson was one of the first kids stupid enough to talk to her when school started the first fall after she moved in. She’d stood at the bus stop away from everyone but Hudson who ambled over in his puffy vest-jacket and asked her what her name was.  _It wasn’t a friendship, really_ , Santana wants to argue. _More like an agreement: Hudson didn’t talk too much, Santana wouldn’t hit him as often as she punched the Puckerman kid_. She remembers they sat almost, sort of, kind of near each other at lunch and they were always the only ones at the table, but she’s not sure she would call it a  _friendship_  if she put a name to it.  
  
“So what happened, Santana?”  
  
 _What happened_. Santana glares at her own reflection in the side view mirror. What happened was Santana had gotten tired of Hudson’s “My Dad Is A Hero” speech. What happened was Santana couldn’t stand knowing that Hudson’s dad left to do  _something great_ , and her dad left just to do  _someone else._  
  
What happened was that little Santana Lopez learned one of the deadliest Seven Sins:  _pride_.  
  
“What’s it matter?”  
  
Shelby sighs. “Santana-”  
  
“It won’t happen again, okay?” She huffs and runs a hand through her ponytail, yanking the knots loose. “I’ll  _try_  not to let it happen again,” she amends, because she won’t make a promise to Shelby that she can’t keep.  
  
“If you just tell me what happened,  _I_  can make sure it never happens again.”  
  
Santana doesn’t take the bait. She’s not like Hudson; she doesn’t tattletale like an eight-year-old on the playground who didn’t get the last swing. She shrugs her shoulders and pulls her seatbelt tighter and after a minute, Shelby sighs again and turns the car on, merging into the afternoon traffic that’s been moving around them.  
  
Santana doesn’t take the bait because she’s not a tattletale.  
  
And because older Santana Lopez hasn’t learned how to get past that pride thing yet either.  
  
\---  
  
Tuesday afternoon she makes her rounds alone. Jesse picked her up, but dropped her off at the corner, smirking when she told him not to go anywhere near Berry. “ _Sure_ ,” he’d hollered back. “Be back in an hour or so.”  
  
She takes her time today, dreading the last house on the corner and knowing that Jesse’s “ _hour or so_ ” really means “ _an hour and at least forty five minutes_.” It’s an easy enough day: the Pillsbury lady cracks the door open and hands Santana her payment in a plastic, air-tight baggie. The Cohen-Chang daughter answers the door when she knocks and Santana stays a few minutes, shamelessly flirting with her – Terri, or Teeny, or, no,  _Tina_  - until Mr. Cohen-Chang comes to the door, shooing her away with a broom. She sees Puck hanging in front of the convenience store the Rutherford family runs and takes a small break, demanding he go buy her a soda. They sit out front and don’t speak to each other until Santana crushes the aluminum can against the side of Puck’s poorly-sheared attempt of a Mohawk and says goodbye.  
  
Checking her watch, she realizes she’s wasted more time than she thought. Jesse might want in Berry’s barely-there skirt, but even he has a low level of patience regarding the shorter girl. She’s been avoiding the house with the bright red door, but she figures that she’s left enough time for Brittany to put money in the mailbox on the front of the house so she might as well get it over with.  
  
Santana climbs the steps, cursing under her breath when the sole of her shoe flaps open again. She’d left her Converse in the bowling alley and Quinn hadn’t remembered to grab them when she left, following Santana back to the Lopez house. They’d sat on the steps together until Quinn had to leave for dinner and then Jesse, bored, had finally come by and in her need to not be anywhere near  _home_  Santana didn’t even remember to ask about the shoes she reverently cleaned nightly so she’s stuck wearing the ones she bought at the consignment shop in eighth grade, after cutting lawns all summer.  
  
So when she reaches the mailbox and finds the envelope, she’s set to turn and march back down the steps and wait on the Cohen-Chang’s stoop for Jesse, on the off-chance Tina sneaks back outside to laugh at all her jokes. Except the mailbox is a little higher than she expects so she steps in close and rises up on her tip toes to look into the black box and kicks something.  
  
Her sneakers, clean and just sitting underneath the mailbox’s shadow against the house, waiting for her. Santana’s eyes flicker to the window but no one is watching her behind the curtain. She looks around for a moment, but Kathryn doesn’t pull open the door and smile at her. She picks up the shoes carefully, cradling them as she roughly shoves the envelope of money into her pocket with the rest of the money. The shoelaces have been washed.  
  
The freaking shoelaces have been washed.  
  
Hastily, she toes off her falling-apart-at-the-seams sneakers and pulls her clean ones on, wriggling her bare toes, feeling them slide into the grooves they’ve made on the inner sole. She stands up and straightens her spine, widening her shoulders as she grins down at her feet. The grunge of her jeans doesn’t even look terrible anymore because her shoes are so bright at the tips that no one will look at them.  
  
She thinks, when she looks back at the house for a second, that she sees the shadow of someone, but she doesn’t hang around to find out, because Jesse’s going to be waiting for her at the corner where he dropped her off soon and Santana has to be careful to avoid the puddles from last night’s rainstorm on her way there.


	4. Part 4

Next Monday she overhears Hudson talking to Berry about this whole romantic date thing he has planned with Brittany. She catches only bits and pieces as their teacher walks around the room during the lecture but from what she does hear, it’s nothing impressive.  
  
Santana could do better.  
  
 _I_ will  _do better_ , she decides.  
  
She pulls Quinn out of class during sixth period – a quick, forged note the teacher doesn’t inspect is enough – and locks them in the last stall.  
  
“I’m missing a test.”  
  
Santana shrugs. “You’ll make it up.”  
  
“What do you want, Santana?”  
  
“Hudson wants to take Blondie out.” Santana figures she should cut to the chase, if she’s going by the look on Quinn’s face. “So, you’re going to ask him if he wants to do something instead.”  
  
Quinn huffs and reaches for the lock. “I don’t have time for this. I’m supposed to be taking a test.”  
  
Santana grabs her hand. “No, c’mon, Q. Hear me out.”  
  
Quinn frowns and snatches her hand back. She rolls her eyes at Santana. “You got your money already. I don’t need to let Finn hold my hand anymore. What’re you doing?”  
  
“Just do me this favor,” she tries.  
  
But Quinn isn’t having it today. “I’m  _always_  doing you favors. Ruining people’s relationships isn’t something I want to be a part of. So,” she says firmly, “Whatever you want to do, do it yourself.”  
  
“I need your help,” she pleads.  
  
It doesn’t work either. Quinn shakes her head and bats Santana’s hand away when Santana tries to block the latch on the door. “You need help, period.  _I_  need to go back to class. Deal with it.”  
  
“What do you want from me, Quinn?" she asks, following the blonde to the sinks. “You want me to ask please? I can do that.” She straightens her shoulders and clasps her hands together in front of her. “ _Please_ , Quinn.  _Please_  do me this last favor and then I’ll never ask you for anything. For at least a month.”  
  
Quinn’s forehead furrows and Santana’s foot taps against tile floor in an erratic rhythm. “Fine,” Quinn says slowly. “ _But_ ,” she adds. Santana winces. “You’re telling my mom that you broke the vase because you were trying to reenact that move from Dirty Dancing.”  
  
Santana almost takes it back. Her entire body jerks forward to take it back, because Mrs. Fabray’s wrath over that vase might not be worth causing Hudson some misery. Except her mouth stays shut, because while Mrs. Fabray’s fury might not be worth Hudson pouting, it’s more than worth getting some alone time with Brittany. And from the smirk on Quinn’s face, her best friend knows this too. So she bites down on her bottom lip and clenches her fist and shakes her head, already regretting this.  
  
“Fine,” she says through gritted teeth. “You take Hudson out tonight and I’ll tell your mom it was my fault.”  
  
The blonde holds out her hand. “Money,” she demands. “I’m not paying for greasy bowling alley pizza with my own money. You want to work your ‘magic’ on Brittany, pay up, stud.”  
  
Santana grumbles her disapproval, but she’s already reaching into her back pocket and pulling all the cash she has out of her wallet, placing it painstakingly in Quinn’s upturned palm. “That should be  _more_  than enough,” she says, stressing the implied, “ _I better get some money back_.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Quinn dismisses, counting the money silently. “I’ll be sure to tip everyone I see.”  
  
“Fabray,” Santana growls, reaching for the blonde. Quinn dances out of her grasp, her sundress spinning up around her. Santana catches the hem of the dress and pulls it towards her as her best friend crashes against her. She holds Quinn in a bear hug as she tries to squirm away and laughs. “I’m getting money back, right?”  
  
Quinn’s body arches away from her fingers. “No,” she says, thrashing her head around. “I’m keeping it all.”  
  
One of Quinn’s heels finds the top of Santana’s foot and she steps down hard. Santana let’s go, hopping on one foot to alleviate the pain on the other. “Dammit, Quinn.”  
  
Her best friend pauses at the door, winking at her. “Call you later, hot stuff,” she coos over Berry’s head as she shorter brunette walks in, scowling.  
  
Santana can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up in her throat, and it’s only Berry, so she doesn’t. Berry breathes out loudly through her nose and it doesn’t help. Santana laughs harder, her scowl broken for just moment. Her hand grips the muscles of her stomach as they burn from underuse.  
  
Berry delicately pulls a strand of silly string out of her hair but it gets caught and she gives up.  
  
Still laughing, Santana grabs a strand and lets it go, watching it spring back and tangle against Berry’s sweater. “Oh, God, Berry. You’re a  _mess_.”  
  
Berry glares, but Santana doesn’t see it, her back turned to the shorter brunette, too busy taking a deep breath and straightening her shoulders, intent on going back out into the real world where Santana Lopez doesn’t give in to the demands of girls like Quinn Fabray and where the sight of a silly string-covered dwarfs doesn’t send her into a laughing fit.   
  
That’s just the kind of world she lives in.  
  
\---  
  
Santana rings the doorbell and prays that anyone other than Brittany answers. It’s not surprising when God doesn’t listen and Brittany opens the door, her immediate smile fading quickly. God has never listened to her before; has never answered any of the numerous prayers she’s offered up since she learned her Hail Mary and her Our Father and why she thinks he’d just give her this one is just stupid. Maybe I’m praying to the wrong person, she thinks, not for the first time.  
  
“What?”  
  
Santana blinks and realizes that Brittany is staring at her impatiently, waiting. She studies Brittany’s face, frowning at the slight swell and rawness of the skin under Brittany’s eyes. Unconsciously, she leans forward, the hands she used to ring the bell reaching up.  
  
Brittany takes a step back into the house. “ _What?_ ”  
  
The tone of her voice shakes Santana out of her trance. “Sorry,” she murmurs, frowning as she does. Santana Lopez doesn’t apologize to anybody and it feels like every other word she says to this girl is  _”sorry”_. She clears her throat. “What’s up?”  
  
“What’s up?” Brittany repeats. “You’re here to ask me ‘what’s up’?”  
  
“Yeah?” When Brittany lifts an eyebrow, Santana straightens her spine and stands taller. “Yeah,” she repeats, more sure of herself. “I’m bored. I wanted to see what you were up to.”  
  
Brittany looks at her and Santana can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking.  _I wanted to see what you were up to?_  she repeats silently.  _Stupid. You couldn’t think of anything else to say? You wanted to see ‘what she was up to’?_  
  
“I’m busy,” Brittany finally says.  
  
Santana smiles and leans a little to the side, looking over Brittany’s shoulder. She can’t hear it, but she would almost bet there’s music playing. It seems like there’s always music playing. “You’re busy?”  
  
Brittany moves into her way, arms crossed over her chest. “Yeah. I’m busy.”  
  
“Well, what’re you doing?”  
  
“Don’t you have an old lady to rob?”  
  
Santana snorts and grins. When Hudson says things like that, it annoys her. Coming from Brittany, it amuses her. “Nope. Not today. The disinfectant lady only let’s me see her on particular days. She’s got some odd set of specific rituals. If you break them, she freaks a little.” Santana perks up. “Want to go see her freak out?”  
  
When Brittany glares at her, Santana is already dropping her head. “Sorry.”  
  
There she does, apologizing again.  
  
“I said I was busy,” Brittany repeats. “So… shoo.”  
  
Santana is torn between being amused and offended. “I’m not a dog,” she says lightly.  
  
The corner of Brittany’s mouth twitches. “Could have fooled me.”  
  
Her whole body stiffens. She’s  _offended_  and a sudden rage flushes through her body, hot against the skin of her cheeks. Her hands clench and her teeth grind together. For just a moment, she feels the self-control she’s been trying to work on slip. It slips enough that her body moves and her fist raises into the air and it only surges back up against her impulse to strike when Brittany flinches. Santana drops her hand immediately, the rage replaced by an unfamiliar shame. Her chin drops down towards her chest and she scuffs the clean siding of her shoe against the rough concrete of the stairs. “I’m going,” she mutters, turning.  
  
She’s halfway down the stairs when a warm hand grabs her by the arm, long fingers slipping under the fabric of her t-shirt, stopping her.  
  
“Wait, wait,” Brittany says quietly, moving down the steps in front of her. They’re the same height now and, this close, Santana can see just how blue Brittany’s eyes are. So blue, it takes Santana a minute to realize Brittany is speaking. “…was rude. I didn’t mean it like that.”  
  
Santana can’t help but be a little bitter. “You didn’t mean to call me a dog?”  
  
“No,” Brittany says. She sounds so sincere Santana shoulders slump from their defensive position. “Don’t you have friends, though, that you could go see?”  
  
Santana shrugs, Brittany’s hand on her arm moving with the motion. She’s hyper-aware of it: Brittany’s dry palm, the goose bumps that rise up on her skin beneath it, the tips of Brittany’s fingernails scratching the curve of her bicep. When the hand slides down a little, loosening its grip, Santana moves forward, into the touch. “I have two friends,” she admits. “Jesse is probably wooing some girl into the backseat of his car and Quinn is-”  
  
Brittany lets go of her and moves down another step. “Quinn is on a date.”  
  
“How’d you know that?”  
  
“Finn called earlier to ‘postpone’ our plans,” Brittany says, emotionless. “And after the whole bowling thing the other day… It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who he was ditching me for. That, and he told me he was going on a date with her,” she adds.  
  
Santana  _wants_  to feel bad, she does. If only because maybe that would explain the slight hint of red in Brittany’s eyes – she was crying over  _Hudson_  of all people, but the sympathetic part of her emotional scale is small to begin with, and really, she’s mostly excited that Hudson still has the hots for Quinn. It  _was_  a risky move, after all. Hudson stopped professing his love for Quinn last year after Santana made it clear that him and his Potato-Face had so chance with Daddy’s Little Girl. Santana knew, though, that somewhere under all the rocks in Hudson’s head, there were still feelings.  _”Quinn’s not the kind of girl you just get over,”_  she’d heard him tell someone once. So she scoffs at Brittany and says, “he’s an idiot.”  
  
Brittany frowns. “Don’t make fun of him.”  
  
“Why’re you defending him?”  
  
“Why are you so mean to him?”  
  
Santana crosses her arms over her chest. “Why’re we fighting about Hudson?”  
  
Brittany’s mouth opens automatically to argue but closes again. “Don’t make fun of him and I won’t get mad about it.”  
  
It seems easy enough. There’re plenty of other people around that she can make fun of Hudson with, so Santana nods and extends her hand. “Fine. Truce.”  
  
The blonde eyes her hand and Santana notices the hesitation in her movement but she grips Santana’s hand firmly and shakes it. “True,” she agrees. “After a moment she let’s go and tilts her head up towards the house. “You can come in if you want. I’m watching ‘A Walk To Remember’.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Brittany, at the top of the stoop now, frowns. “Oh?”  
  
Santana nods. “Oh.”  
  
“You don’t like ‘A Walk To Remember’?”  
  
They’re never going to get off this stoop and into the hose at this rate, so Santana brushes past Brittany and lingers on the threshold. Brittany gets the hint and follows, closing the door and leading Santana into a room off the main hall. The last time she’d glanced into the room it was bare except for cardboard boxes piled in the corners. Now there’s a rug and a couch and a few chairs that look too stuffed in places and too empty in others. There are curtains hanging and pictures out on the end tables. Nothing matched. Mrs. Fabray would have a  _shit fit_  if she saw this.  
  
“I’ve never seen it,” she says casually, dropping onto the couch. Brittany stops short, the shock evident on her face.  
  
“What?”  
  
Santana toes off her shoes and pulls her feet up, stretching them out onto the coffee table. “It’s one of those chick flicks where someone dies and everybody cries and a young person learns a life lesson, right? Yeah, I don’t watch those.”  
  
Brittany walks through the space between the couch and the table, her arm sweeping down and knocking Santana’s feet off. “It’s a love story.”  
  
She waits until Brittany is sitting at the other end of the couch before she lifts her feet back up. “It’s crap.”  
  
“You’re a monster,” Brittany says, but she’s shaking her head and even though Santana can only see her profile, there’s a smirk – or something like it – pulling at the corner of her mouth. Brittany didn’t say it the way the Hummel kid yelled it at her when she threw a rock through the office window of Hummel Tire and Lube. She was just trying to help Puck collect. Burt Hummel wasn’t scared of a couple of teenagers, but he loved his son and his business, so they threw a couple harmless rocks, made a few phone calls and presto! Puck hasn’t had a problem since, so mission accomplished.   
  
“I’m cultured.”  
  
Brittany, finger hovering over the play button, turns and scoffs. “In what? ‘Die Hard’ and ‘Mission Impossible’?”  
  
Santana smirks back, scooting down in her seat and pillowing her arms behind her head. “And ‘Transporter’.”  
  
“I bet you just like looking at Jason Statham’s muscles,” Brittany huffs, dropping her head onto the arm of the couch, curling up into a ball.  
  
Santana watched Brittany shuffle and settle her body. “They’re okay,” she agrees, her eyes following the contracted line of Brittany’s spin until it disappears against the couch. “The girl in the movie is better looking, though.”  
  
She holds her breath, waiting for Brittany’s body to stiffen in realization; for the blonde to turn to her with wide eyes; for the accusatory finger to point and shake in her direction. She’s imagined the reaction a million times after seeing it once, from a complete stranger who saw her kiss a girl under a bridge in the park. She’s imagined her mother’s reaction, but it always blurs over before anything is said or done. Brittany looks at Santana over her shoulder, her forehead pulled together and her eyes narrowed. Santana braces herself.  
  
“The first or the second movie?”  
  
Santana blinks a few time and tilts her head to one side, unsure if she heard the question correctly. “What?”  
  
“The first one or the second one?” Brittany asks again, slowly.  
  
“Why not the third?” Santana spits out after a moment.  
  
Brittany gives her an  _”oh, please”_  look. “That girl was not hot.”  
  
“Hey,” Santana argues. “You got something against redheads?”  
  
The blonde studies her seriously for a moment before her lips split in a smile. “Now you’re just being a pain in the ass. First girl or second girl, choose.”  
  
She pretends to think about it even though she doesn’t need to. Brittany waits patiently for a minute but then she reaches over and pinches Santana’s forearm. “Ouch,” she hisses, rubbing at the irritated skin. “The first one. The first one, okay?”  
  
Brittany nods. “Good choice. She’s hotter than the other two girls combined.”  
  
Santana stares at Brittany for a moment, but the blonde just smirks, shimmies her shoulder and turns back to the TV. Santana doesn’t. She watches Brittany, immersed in whatever monologue the guy on screen is giving. It’s unnerving that she keeps managing to surprise Santana. It feels like every time she gets a read on Brittany, she’s wrong, or she’s not focusing on the right thing; like Brittany is running around her in circles and Santana can’t keep up and trying to follow is just making her dizzy.  
  
Brittany’s leg stretches out and her foot presses against Santana’s side, below her hip, catching her off guard. “Pay attention,” she murmurs. “This is the good part.”  
  
Santana scoffs, ready to say, again, that the whole movie is crap, but it seems like Brittany anticipates this and kicks Santana again. “Shut up,” she says. Santana closes her mouth and stares at the screen.  
  
She’s more focused on the heat coming from the sole of Brittany’s bare foot and the toes she can feel against her skin where her jeans are ripped, than the movie though. When it’s over, after Brittany tells her – with a small smile – to get lost because her aunt will be home soon, she’s glad Brittany didn’t ask her what she thought.  
  
She can’t even say what the movie was about.  
  
Later, when Quinn calls to bitch about her date, she asks.  
  
“Wait a minute,” Quinn shouts. Santana winces and puts some distance between the phone and her ear. “I had to cuddle up to Finn at the bowling alley and all you did was watch a Mandy Moore movie?”  
  
“ _That’s_  who that was,” Santana says, grinning at her reflection in the mirror. “I  _knew_  she looked familiar.”  
  
Quinn growls. “Santana…”  
  
“I can’t just jump her, Q.”  
  
“But you want to.”  
  
Santana can picture Quinn on the porch off of her room, curled up in the wicker easy chair with her legs tucked underneath her, posture straight, smirking to herself as she picks at her fingernails disinterestedly. Santana has watched her do this a hundred times before, gossiping with her sister. It’s practically a Fabray family trait. She can tell that’s what Quinn is doing now and it annoys her.  
  
“Shut up,” she grounds out.  
  
“Aww,” Quinn coos. “Poor Santana can’t always get what she wants.”  
  
“Stick your tongue down Hudson’s throat yet?” Santana asks gruffly, changing the subject.   
  
Quinn makes a gagging sound. “He’s a gentleman, or something. He only held my hand and blushed every time he touched me anywhere else.”  
  
“Aww,” Santana mocks. “Poor Quinn can’t get hot for good boys. It’s the bad boys that get your motor hummin’, ain’t it, Susie Q?”  
  
“Shut up,” Quinn says quickly. “Want to come over for dinner?”  
  
Santana pulls her covers higher up under her chin and rolls over to check the clock. It’s only half-past seven. The Fabrays of the world, with their china place settings and their uncomfortable high-backed chairs and their polite conversations are all sitting down to dinner, or going to check whatever is cooling for dessert. Santana’s china is Dixie plates and she throws the out regularly, piled with cold, untouched food.  
  
“I’m good,” she tells Quinn.  
  
She doesn’t need to see her best friend to know the blonde is frowning at her. “You’re in bed, aren’t you?”  
  
“No,” Santana says quickly.  
  
Quinn sighs. “It’s not even eight o’clock yet, Santana.”  
  
“I need my beauty sleep. One of us has to be pretty, you know.”  
  
Quinn doesn’t take the bait. “ _You know_ , for a self-proclaimed badass, you’re really kind of a loser.”  
  
“If I’m a bird, you’re a bird.” Santana drops the phone to her pillow while Quinn rants. She undresses, pulling on her sweats and a ratty, old, paint-stained t-shirt she’d found in the bottom drawer of the giant dresser in her mom’s room. Her dad had built it and when he left, it was all that he didn’t take: his wife, his kid, his dresser and the shirt. Distantly, Santana can hear the sound of the infomercials channel running its regular programming while Quinn keeps talking.  
  
It’s all just white noise.  
  
“Are you even listening to me, Santana?” she hears from the phone. Grinning, she jumps back into bed.  
  
“Of course I am, Princess. You said ‘yadda, yadda, yadda’ with a some ‘blah, blah, blah’ thrown in.”  
  
There’s a pause and then Quinn sighs. “Just eat something. You’re skin and bones already.”  
  
Santana salutes, even though Quinn can’t see her. “Yes sir, Ms. Fabray, sir. I’ll see you in the morning, too damn bright and too damn early.” She doesn’t wait for Quinn to say goodbye, but ends the call and burrows under the covers, pulling her knees up to her chest.  
  
She’s almost asleep when she hears the television click off. Her ears strain and she lifts her head from the pillow, but it’s not until she’s almost given up and closed her eyes that she hears the almost-silent padding of feet against the carpeted hall.  
  
It’s just the ghost, wandering the house again.  
  
The shadow crosses her door. “Goodnight, Mom,” she whispers, but no one says anything back.  
  
She can’t sleep so she spends the rest of the night listening to the sound of restless pacing.  
  
\---  
  
Santana fights the urge to run and presses the doorbell instead, her fingers flexing around the plastic case she’s holding.  
  
Brittany opens the door, confusion in her eyes.  _At least she’s not scowling,_ , the hopeful voice in Santana’s head says. The voice has a point. “Hey,” Brittany says slowly, breaking into Santana’s thoughts. “What’s going on?”  
  
Her body reacts before her brain allows it to and the movie she brought hangs awkwardly between them. “I thought we could watch a movie.”  
  
The blonde tilts her head and mouths the titles as she reads it, smirking. “Transporter.”  
  
Santana shrugs. “I just don’t do… much on Mondays and I figure you’ve already seen it but you must like it so why wouldn’t you want to watch it again, right, and I already know you think the girl is hot, so…” She takes a breath a realizes two things at once: she’s rambling and  _Oh, God,_  maybe Brittany has plans.  
  
“Slow down,” Brittany instructs, but there’s a hint of a smile on her face. “Did you want to try that again?”  
  
Santana nods gratefully, feeling so much unlike herself that it wouldn’t surprise her if she had switched bodies with someone else, like Berry. “Want to watch ‘Transporter’ with me? You can say no.”  
  
She’s never given anyone that option before and she rolls it around in her mouth, cringing at the unfamiliar taste of diplomacy.  
  
Brittany gives her a small smirk and jerks her head a little towards the inside of the house. “Come in, then. But take your shoes off. My aunt just made the floors slippery.”  
  
“She waxed them?” Santana asks, reverently untying her laces and slipping out her shoes. Her socked feet hit the floorboards and she slides a little. “Never mind,” she mutters, holding the wall to steady herself.  
  
“I said they were slippery,” Brittany repeats. She holds out her hand. “Give me.”  
  
For one hopeful moment Santana thinks that Brittany is asking for her hand. She hates the way her stomach twists in defeat as she follows Brittany’s line of sight and realizes she’s talking about the DVD in Santana’s hand. She holds her head up as she hands it to Brittany, following the blonde into the living room, taking up one end of the couch. She feels a little sick to her stomach and her throat is dry.  
  
Brittany puts the disc in the player and settles on the couch the same way she did the last time. Santana is so busy berating herself -  _why would you think she was trying to hold your hand, stupid_  - that when a pair of feet stretch across her lap, long, pale toes touching the arm of the couch, she’s not expecting it. She glances at them and then at Brittany but the blonde is facing the television and doesn’t seem to be concerned with the way Santana is unsure of what to do with her hands.  
  
She settles for dropping one arm off the couch casually and letting the other drape over slim ankles. Brittany shifts again, stretching further and Santana reminds herself to breath as her hand ends up fanned across Brittany’s calf muscle.  
  
  
“This girl is much hotter than the rest,” Brittany says again as the girl comes on-screen in a men’s dress short and nothing else.  
  
Santana nods and hums her agreement.  
  
“She kind of looks like that girl you go to school with. The one with stripes in her hair.”  
  
“ _Tina?_ ” Santana asks after a moment. “Tina Cohen-Chang?”  
  
Brittany smiles. “Yeah, her. I met her when Finn took me by the school. That’s nice that you know her name.”  
  
Santana’s mouth opens and closes a few time, a couple thoughts running through her head. Finally she says, “You can’t just say they look alike because they’re both Asian, you know.” She shakes her head. “Why don’t you go to our school anyway?”  
  
The blonde frowns and then shrugs and Santana’s hand moves with it, resting above Brittany’s knee. “That’s not why I said it. And I go to Carmel.”  
  
“But don’t you live in McKinley limits?” She doesn’t really need an answer; she knows the school limits and the district limits and Shelby’s limits like the back of her hand. Brittany’s house firmly falls in all of those limits and Carmel is almost forty-five minutes away.  
  
“Yeah, but I started at Carmel, so that’s where I go to school.” Her tone says  _let it go_  but Santana doesn’t feel like it. She wants to know  _everything_  she can about Brittany, like why she goes to Carmel instead of McKinley and why she lives with her aunt and not with her parents. “Be quiet,” Brittany orders, her eyes glued to the screen again. “This is my favorite part.”  
  
Santana actually doesn’t like movies like this one. She had to bribe Puck with the promise of letting him touch her boob in order to get the DVD for the afternoon. She hadn’t lied to Brittany – she had seen this movie once, at Puck and Jesse’s insistence, but she liked Sci-Fi a little better than some over-muscled guy without a shirt, unrealistically blowing shit up. At least with Sci-Fi there’s the chance of a really hot chick setting the explosives off.  
  
So she focuses more on trying to find a way to subtly move her hand higher up Brittany’s leg. There’s just so much  _skin_  and her heart beats a little faster at the thought of touching it all.  
  
“This part is just like all the others,” she grumbles to herself. Brittany hears her, though, and smirks.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
Santana scowls a bit. “I just want to know things about you.”  
  
Brittany sits up, moving to the center of the couch. Santana’s fingertips brush the end of her shorts and for a moment, Santana is distracted. “Why?” Brittany asks, pulling her attention back.  
  
“You’re just… interesting,” Santana says lamely, crossing her arms over her chest to try and seem like she didn’t make a fool of herself.  
  
It’s like the first time she met Quinn: hanging out with Jesse after school they had stopped to drop off his day’s collection. Santana had sat a little taller in the passenger seat to peer over the window edge. A girl from her class – Quilt, or something – was playing on the front lawn in her dress, her hair in neat little braids. Santana had ducked and ran her hands through her hair, grimacing at the sweat that collected at the band of her ball cap. She lifted her head again, wanting so badly to see the girl, to know what her name was and how old she was and if… if she wanted to be Santana’s friend. Jesse was great, but he couldn’t play hide and seek with her at recess.  
  
Brittany stares at her thoughtfully. “You want to know something about me? I know you keep sabotaging my dates with Finn.”  
  
 _Dates is kind of an exaggeration_ , Santana wants to argue.  _It’s only been two of them_. “It’s only been two of them,” she repeats out loud. “I’m doing you a favor.”  
  
“By ruining my chances with Finn?”  
  
Santana snorts. “He’s a chump,” she says, bracing herself for Brittany to pull away; for the leg to slip out from underneath her hand, but Brittany smiles.  
  
“He’s a nice guy.”  
  
“He can’t even dance.”  
  
By the look on Brittany’s face, that sounds as ridiculous as Santana thinks it does. “What does dancing have to do with anything?”  
  
“You’re a dancer,” Santana points out. “I saw you dancing.”  
  
Brittany lies back down, propping one arm up under her head. “I like to dance,” she says slowly.  
  
Santana nods too quickly. “And Hudson doesn’t. He’s like… he flaps his arms and his legs go two different directions. He’s worse at dancing than he is at football. And he’s _terrible_  at football.”  
  
“Maybe.” Brittany shrugs. “I’ve never seen him do either.”  
  
“You’re better off that way,” Santana says firmly. “Your eyes would bleed.”  
  
Something else blows up on screen but Santana can’t look away from Brittany and the blonde is looking back at her, a slight wrinkle creasing her forehead. Santana’s free hand reaches up and she touches two fingers to the skin, dragging them from the top of Brittany’s forehead down, smoothing the skin as she goes. She freezes and pulls her hand back, frowning at herself.  
  
Brittany looks amused. “Didn’t you learn not to touch other people in, like, kindergarten?”  
  
“Didn’t you?” Santana snaps back, looking pointedly towards Brittany’s legs.  
  
“They didn’t like me in kindergarten. I hated coloring inside the lines.”  
  
She tries to keep a straight face, but one breath escapes and then she’s grinning at Brittany, shaking her head, hyper-aware of the way her fingers slip under the hemline of Brittany’s shorts. “I was never good at staying inside the lines either.”  
  
Brittany eyes trace a path from Santana’s face down her neck and across her collarbone to her shoulder. Santana can feel them, like pinpricks against her skin as Brittany keeps going, following the line of her arm to the crook of her elbow and stopping at Santana’s wrist. Santana’s skin burns. “I bet you crossed a lot of lines,” she breathes out.  
  
Santana inches forward, feeling the sofa tip her towards the center of the couch, towards Brittany’s weight. “Lines are like rules,” she whispers, her throat dry. “I’m really good at breaking them.”  
  
“Don’t kiss me,” Brittany whispers. Santana reels back, the edge of the couch so far away from where she was hovering over Brittany.   
  
It’s too much pressure – the same pressure that builds every time her mom retreats further and further – and it’s too fast so she pushes Brittany’s feet away, standing up. “I wasn’t going to,” she insists.  
  
Brittany sits up but when she goes to stand, Santana takes a step back. “You were. It’s okay,” Brittany adds quickly.  
  
Santana takes another step back, shaking her head. “No. I wasn’t. Why would I do something stupid like that?” she asks, her voice getting higher. “That’s just  _stupid_.”  
  
“Santana,” Brittany sighs.  
  
She feels stupid. Stupid and pathetic and Brittany is looking at her in a way Santana hasn’t had to deal with in such a long time that  _it’s too much pressure_  and she’s overwhelmed with the desire to just get out. She doesn’t need Brittany’s pity; doesn’t need Brittany to look at her like she’s some sort of glass shattered in little pieces across the floor. It’s the same look everyone gave her after her dad left, after her mom stopped showing up for parent-teacher conferences. It’s that same look of  _”poor her”_  that everyone gave her until she stopped letting them; until she started giving people a reason to fear her instead of pity her.  
  
“Make sure,” she says gruffly, her words catching as she tries to pull on her shoes. “Make sure your payment is in the damn mailbox tomorrow,” she hisses. “I can’t cover your ass all the time.”  
  
Brittany reaches for her. “Stop being stubborn for a second.”  
  
Santana pulls her hands back, lifting them up. “Whatever,” she says, leaving her laces untied. “Have it or it won’t be me coming to the door next time.”  
  
She leaves the DVD in the house and moves down the street with her shoulders hunched over and her hands in her pocket. Puck’s going to give her hell, but maybe Brittany will put the movie in the mailbox with the money and she can just pick it up tomorrow.  
  
Maybe she’ll tell Quinn to tell Hudson to get it instead.  
  
Right now, she’s going to care more about doing something destructive – maybe dismantle a swing at the park, or knock Ryerson’s mailbox off its post – than what Puck’s going to say when she doesn’t show up at school with his stupid movie.


	5. Part 5

Jesse doesn’t show to pick her up for another week in a row and she kicks the curb with her heel, suddenly stranded. Quinn took off on the handle bars of Hudson’s bike – and Santana had to try hard not to puke when she saw the smile her best friend gave the Neanderthal. She makes a note to talk to Quinn about not laying it on so thick; it looks gross. Puck glared at her when she glanced in his direction, still sore about the movie  _and_  not being able to touch her boob so he was out of the question.  
  
She fumbled for her cell and opened it, dialing Jesse’s number. It rang a few times before going to voicemail and she left him a message telling him to get his act together and start showing up when he promised he would. “Come on, Jess,” she murmured into the speaker. “You’ve been ignoring me for weeks now. I told you I didn’t spill the soda in your car, but if you don’t believe me, I’ll wash it out myself, okay? Just call me.”  
  
The corner of Crosstown and Sheldon isn’t far from school and she gets there easily enough, giving Puck the middle finger when he speeds past her in his death trap of a car. She decides to start at Brittany’s end of the street, figuring that if she gets it out of the way she doesn’t have to stress about it the entire route.  
  
Brittany is sitting at the top of her steps, though, holding an envelope in one hand and the movie in the other, swinging her feet over the side of the stoop. Santana looks away and strides past the house – she’ll just come back tomorrow.  
  
“Hey, wait up,” she hears behind her over the sound of feet on the pavement.   
  
 _Don’t talk to her. Whatever she says, don’t say a word back,_  she instructs herself, nodding lightly.  _You got this._  
  
Brittany jogs the few feet between them and matches her step for step. “You’re walking fast.”  
  
“I’m trying to get away from you,” she says, biting down hard on her bottom lip as soon as she speaks.  _What happened to not talking to her?_  
  
“Well that’s stupid.”  
  
Santana climbs the stairs to the Zizes house and pulls the padded envelope out from where it’s wedged between the doors. She brushes past the blonde and continues moving, down to the Azimio’s and over to the Johnson’s, Brittany keeping up half a step behind her. Running would just look ridiculous, so she tries to pick up the pace a little, walking faster than her muscles are really used to.  
  
“You know you want to talk to me,” she says lightly, her hand brushing Santana’s arm every time they take a step. “Whatever you want to say, go ahead.”  
  
Santana turns on the steps to another house and glares. “I want you to go away.” She pauses. “Actually, I want my money and then I want you to go away.” She holds her hand out expectantly but Brittany shrugs and leans up against the stoop and so Santana goes up the next house. When Santana comes back down the stairs she’s right there again, over Santana’s right shoulder. There’s a part of Santana that’s irritated but there’s another part of her that wants to roll her eyes and shrug her shoulders because Brittany is walking next to her, talking to her.  
  
“Go away,” she says again, glancing up at the Karofsky house. She’s been having a little trouble lately, something Jesse said he’d take care of for her. The old man isn’t bad; he gives her what she asks for and his only request is that he doesn’t knock his hanging plants down. The son, though, a hulk of kid with more rocks for brains than Hudson, has been questioning the system lately and it’s pissing her off. He’s sitting on the porch watching her, the money in his hands. “Go,” she says again, more urgently than she wants to.  
  
Brittany looks up to and shakes her head. “I’ll wait.”  
  
She doesn’t feel like arguing so she pushes Brittany back a step and glares at the Karofsky kid.  
  
“This is the last time you’re getting this,” he says gruffly.  
  
Santana rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Just give it to me, or I’ll send this vine on a one way ticket to the pavement,” she says, gesturing towards a potted plant on the window ledge.  
  
He stands, towering over her the same way Hudson does. It’s different, though, because even though Hudson is  _big_  he’s harmless. He’s untouchable and has the softest edges Santana has ever seen and he’s always smiling his stupid goofy smile. She might not want to touch Karofsky, but she could certainly hit him if she wanted to, and the way he sneers down at her makes her wonder if it would hurt when he hits her back.  
  
“You’re all empty threats,” he hisses.  
  
“And you’re just plain empty in the head,” she growls back. “Just give it to me and go back to pounding sand.”  
  
He steps closer and thrusts the envelope at her, catching her in the stomach. She feels the air go out of her with a  _whoosh_  and he keeps pushing until her heels tilts off the first step and her arms flail wildly, gripping his jacket. If she’s going down, he’s coming with her.  
  
She hears Brittany gasp behind her but she’s too worried about the ever-loosening grip Karofsky has on her shirt to really turn around and reassure the blonde that nothing’s going to happen; she’s too worried that something might actually happen to reassure anyone but herself that it won’t.  
  
“Listen to me, bitch. You’re going to stop coming around here, you understand?”  
  
She can’t help it. “Do you understand the use of mouthwash?” she says through gritted teeth. “Let go of me, Shrek.”   
  
He lets go and she tumbles back, dropping down the steps gracelessly, and her elbows hit the ground hard. She stiffens her neck and doesn’t let it touch the ground, the fear of a concussion beating out scraped elbows. She stands before she’s fully prepared to and the world spins for the brief second she pauses before launching herself at Karofsky. Long arms wind around her waist though, pulling her back off the sidewalk into the street.  
  
Karofsky laughs from the top of the stairs and tosses the envelope at her feet while she struggles in Brittany’s arms. “I always knew you needed a keeper.”  
  
Santana growls and grips Brittany’s hand, ripping them away from her body. “ _Get off me_ ,” she hisses.  
  
By the time she wrestles out of Brittany’s surprisingly tight grip, Karofsky is already inside his house. Santana bends her arms and winces, feeling the gravel from the sidewalk dig further into her skin. They’re warm and she knows that they’re bleeding but she pushes her hair out of her eyes and wipes a palm down her front, smoothing out her shirt, instead of tending to them.  
  
“Let me look,” Brittany says quietly behind her.  
  
Santana wrenches her arm out of Brittany’s reach. “Leave me alone.”  
  
Brittany sighs. “Come on. Just let me see.”  
  
“I told you to go away.” She turns and marches down the street, barely stopping to pull an envelope out of the Peterson’s street-side mailbox.  
  
“I like the color red,” she hears behind her. Her step falters a little and she frowns. “It’s my favorite color,” Brittany continues, her voice coming closer. “I like Finn’s letterman jacket because it’s red.” A hand grips the hem of her shirt and tugs on it. “I like your shirt because it’s red.”  
  
Santana closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Why are you-”  
  
“You wanted to know things about me, right?” Brittany’s hand releases her shirt and touches one shoulder, sliding down towards her elbow. The blonde moves around her, lifting Santana’s arm. She feels like a science experiment being poked and prodded as Brittany hums under her breath and lifts her other arm. “That’s something about me,” she finally says. “I like the color red.”  
  
“When I said… that’s not…” Santana sighs. She feels like she’s floundering -  _because you are_ , the voice in her head says. “So you like red,” she breathes out.  
  
Brittany nods and smiles. “I really like red. Not blood red though. That just makes me woozy. You should wash your elbows.”  
  
Santana cants her head down the street. “I have to finish this.”  
  
“You can take the time to make sure your arms don’t get infected,” Brittany says firmly. “What if you have to cut them off?”  
  
“Cut them off?”  
  
Brittany nods seriously. “It’d be a little silly if you had to cut your arms off just because you were too stubborn to wash the dirt out of your elbows.”  
  
Santana shakes her head and sighs again, gently pulling her arm out of Brittany’s hold. “I’m going to finish this and then I’ll do it.”  
  
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Brittany murmurs to herself, taking a few steps down the street. She glances back over her shoulder. “Aren’t you finishing? Or are you going to wash the cuts out like I told you too?” she asks, her eyes lighting up.  
  
“I told you to go home.” Santana stands her ground, hooking her thumb over her shoulder. “Your house is that way. So…” she frowns. “Shoo.”  
  
“I like hip hop more than I like ballet.”  
  
Santana isn’t sure what to do with that information.  
  
“I know you saw me doing ballet once, and I really like it, but I’m much better at hip hop.” Santana wonders, with how good she thinks Brittany is a ballet, if it’s possible to be _better_. “It’s so much more free than ballet. Sometimes my arms just get stuck in first position and then it takes a while before they relax again. Hey, is this house on your route?”  
  
She opens her mouth to ask where the hell that came from, but realizes that she’s standing in front of the next pick-up house. Brittany is smiling at her and her eyes are twinkling. “You can’t just tell me things to distract me,” she grumbles.  
  
Brittany shrugs. “I can if it works.”  
  
At the next house, a little kid with wild hair and eyes to match, tries to chase her off the porch but she looks down at him and snorts when he punches her weakly in the leg. She meets Brittany on the sidewalk and gives her a small smile, trying to ignore the way Brittany’s eyes linger on the angry kid at the top of the steps and the way it turns her stomach.  
  
\---  
  
She catches sight of Berry rushing around the corner in during fourth period and she follows, her curiosity getting the better of her. Berry isn’t the type of girl to skip class for anything. Santana is, though, so she breezes by the English class she’s supposed to be in and takes the same halls Berry does, to the closed part of the school by the gym where the burners go to hang out before the bell rings.  
  
Santana’s confused until she sees the cherry red Mustang parked by the back double doors propped open and then she’s pissed.  
  
She barrels out the doors, her fists already clenched, ready to beat some sense into Jesse. He can ignore her phone calls and quit picking her up, but he can’t leave  _Berry_ alone? Bull. Shit.  
  
Someone’s already beat something into Jesse though.   
  
He’s sitting on the hood of the car, shoulders slumped forward in something so unfamiliar written across his face that it takes her a second to place it before she comes up with the word  _defeat_. She can see the side of his, black and blue and bleeding heavily enough to spread and stain the collar of his shirt. Berry gasps at the same time Santana does, running her hands through his hair and lifting his head to inspect the damage. The entire left side of his face is swollen but his right eye locks on her and she pauses just outside the door, staring at him.  
  
She doesn’t hear what he whispers to Berry, but the smaller girl turns to look at her briefly before tilting Jesse’s chin up, checking under his jaw. It breaks their eye contact so she moves closer to the car, coming up on Jesse’s right side so he can see her.  
  
“Who did this?” Berry asks, her furious tone betraying the blank look on her face. “Jesse, who-”  
  
“Give it a rest, Berry,” Santana interrupts. “Questioning him isn’t going to bandage him up.” She grimaces as she touches his neck, her fingers coming back sticky with blood. “Don’t you have something to clean this up with?”  
  
Berry looks angry that she didn’t think of that herself and presses a kiss Santana is embarrassed to be a witness to against the side of Jesse’s cleaner temple, hurrying back into the school.  
  
Santana sits next to Jesse, lifting her feet up onto the bumper of the car. She rests her elbows on her knees and leans forward a bit watching Jesse cradle one of his hands in his lap. She sighs and reaches over. “Broken?”  
  
His hand isn’t just broken; it’s completely shattered from his bottom knuckles to the tips of his fingers. “Shit, Jess,” she mutters to herself, turning his hand over gently. “What ran into you?”  
  
“Nothing,” he says, the word hardly understandable.   
  
“Hey,” she says sharply. “I’m not your girlfriend. Don’t ‘protect my feelings’ or whatever bullshit you pull with her. Tell me who did this so I can go do this to them.”  
  
He shakes his head and murmurs, “Shut up, hothead.”  
  
She stands up, furious at him. She feels nine again; like Jesse is still that teenager who patted her on the head and called her a ‘kid’ with that smug smirk of his. “ _I’m_  at hothead? Look at  _you_. It’s like someone played baseball, using your face as the ball and a two-by-four as the bat. Don’t call me a hothead when someone used you as a _punching bag_.”  
  
Jesse reaches for her with his non-broken hand and tugs her back down. It’s not hard enough to actually, physically move her – she watches him wince even with that slight movement – but it’s enough to get the point across: sit down. She falls back down next to him and sighs. “This why you stopped returning my calls, punk?” she tries to joke. “Someone was keeping you locked up in their basement and you couldn’t just take the time to let me know?”  
  
He smirks but it looks more like a grimace. “Lost my cell phone.”  
  
She shakes her head and takes off her long-sleeve shirt, balling it up and pressing it against Jesse’s neck. “Jesus,” she whispers. “They did a number on you.”  
  
Jesse winces when she presses a little too hard but Berry is pushing her hands away, replacing the scratchy cotton of her shirt with wet paper towels. Santana feels like she should look away as Berry cleans Jesse’s face, like she’s intruding on a moment. The way Berry picks Jesse’s chin up and tilts it towards the sky feels too personal and it lets her see too much of a side of Jesse’s she’s not familiar with, so she busies herself. Jesse always has a knife in his glove compartment, so she searches for it, grimacing at the blood that slicks the leather inside his car. It coats the gear shift and the steering wheel and the smell of cooper hits her hard enough to make her stomach turn. She uses the switchblade to unstitch the cleaner sleeve of her now-bloodied shirt and wraps it around Jesse’s hand.  
  
“Thank you,” Berry says quietly.  
  
“Don’t speak for him,” Santana says more out of a habit than actual annoyance. “He’s fine.”  
  
Berry looks at her with a clear question in her brown eyes:  _who are you trying to convince, Santana? Him, me, or you?_  
  
“What happened?” Berry asks again, a little more forcefully.  
  
Jesse shakes his head out of Berry’s hands and sighs. “I ran into a pole,” he says. At least, that’s what it sounds like he says.  
  
“I’m not kidding around, Jesse.”  
  
He looks at her out of one eye and brushes back her bangs with his good hand, hooking his hand around the back of her neck and tugging her down. Santana thinks he’s trying to kiss her and this time she looks away.  
  
“Get to class,” she hears him mumble.  
  
Berry shakes her head. “Absolutely not. We’re getting you to a hospital.”  
  
“How are you going to do that, Smurf?” Santana asks. “He can’t drive. I’m not driving his car when it’s… And you. Can you even reach the pedals?”  
  
“Shut up, Santana,” Berry growls. “Just shut up.” She turns to Jesse, her eyes glassy. “Please, Jesse. Let me take you to the hospital.”  
  
Santana catches Jesse’s eye and nods, putting aside her “no touching” rule, and wraps her arm around Berry’s shoulders. “Come on,” she says quietly. “Come on, let me take you back to class.” Berry struggles a little but Santana is stronger and she pushes harder than Berry pulls. She gets the brunette inside the building, into her classroom and doubles back outside. “Give me the cloth,” she tells him when she sees him trying to use it. “You should go to the hospital,” she says quietly. He shakes his head. “I know it’s not safe. But you might have actually broke something.”  
  
“No,” he says hoarsely. “They might actually break something if I go to the hospital.”  
  
“Yeah, well…” She cleans the blood away and grimaces at the sight of a deep cut across his cheek. “You’re going to need stitches, Jess.”  
  
He gives her “ _so, give me stitches_ ” look and hooks an arm over her shoulders and leans on her as he tries to stand. She puts an arm around his waist and helps him to the car, waiting patiently as he slowly drops into the passenger seat. She shuts the door after him and stands there for a moment, looking down at her hands.  
  
She’s had blood on her hands before – her own and Puck’s and other people who gave her trouble – but the blood now,  _Jesse’s blood_ , is heavier and darker than any other blood she’s seen before. It stiffens her hands and she flexes them a few times, watching the dried blood crack and fall from her hands in flakes.  
  
Santana will get Jesse some help. She’ll get Jesse some help and then she’ll go to see Shelby and straighten things out.  
  
\---  
  
It takes her a day before she’s okay with leaving Jesse by himself – Berry tried to come over, but Santana shook her head and pushed her back out the door, because she saw some of Shelby’s guys trailing her, watching them.  
  
“You can’t go in there!” Chang squeaks, putting a hand out to stop her. Santana ducks under his arm and into the apartment, ignoring Schuester and Tanaka and the rest of the guys when they say hello, focused on getting into the back room and giving Shelby a piece of her mind.  
  
“Out of my way, Puckerman,” she growls when he steps into her way.  
  
Puck smirks at her. “Whose got your panties in a twist, Lopez?”  
  
She spares a glance at his hands and feels something like fury boil in her stomach, rising in her throat. “You  _asshole_ ,” she hisses, pushing him back. He stumbles a few feet, his back against the wall, and she hits him again, her fist tightened and her jab hard.  
  
Hands are pulling at her shoulders and through the haze of red in her eyes, she sees Puck slump down to the floor, holding his side where she knows she landed one really solid punch. One hand, cold against the back of her neck, twists in the collar of her shirt and she’s being dragged through the crowd rushing to lift Puck to his feet.  
  
She’s tossed through the door to the back room and lands on her back, staring up at the ceiling, panting and trying to force air into her lungs.  
  
“Get up,” Shelby commands. Santana rolls over onto her stomach and pushes up, sitting on her knees for a moment before using the table edge to stand. Shelby inhales sharply and shakes her head. “Sit down.”  
  
Santana’s head pounds as she watches Shelby cross the room and wave someone over. “Ice. Now. And get Puckerman off my floor, do you understand me?” And bag of ice is in her hand almost instantly and Santana barely catches it. “Put that on your eye before you end up blind.”  
  
She does what she’s told because her head is pounding and everything on her right is starting to go a little blurry. Santana isn’t sure when Puck got a punch in at all, but he must have, because when she presses the ice to her face, it’s tender. Shelby shuts the door connecting the main room to this room and leans against it, her arms crossed over her chest, her face expectant.  
  
“What do you think you’re doing, coming in here and  _punching_  people?”  
  
It reminds her why she’s here. “What are  _you_  doing sending Puckerman after Jesse?”  
  
Shelby stiffens. “That’s none of your business.”  
  
“It became my business the minute he started bleeding,” she hisses. The ice drops to the table with a thud. “What’s your problem with him, huh? He gets his money in on time. He’s never done  _anything_  to put you at…  _Why are you laughing?_ ”  
  
Shelby’s not laughing, really, but she’s leaning against the door and smirking and it’s so satisfactory and cocky that if Santana actually had the guts she talks about having, she’d knocked it off Shelby’s face so fast the other woman wouldn’t know what hit her. But Santana is aware of the way things work and if she laid one hand on Shelby, she wouldn’t have that hand anymore.  
  
“Sometimes,” Shelby says slowly, “I forget how…  _forceful_  you can be when you’re angry.”  
  
“They practically broke his cheekbone,” she seethes.  
  
Shelby waves a hand dismissively. “His poor, pretty face.” Shelby’s eyes harden. “This is a business, Ms. Lopez. And in this business,  _my_  business, people need to remember that  _I’m_  the one in charge.” She’s suddenly hovering over Santana, a finger jabbing Santana in the chest with every word. “I’m the one in charge,” she says in a low voice. “It would be in your best interest not to forget that.”  
  
She feels a surge of confidence at the way Shelby seems to sort of feel like she has to reestablish the control of the conversation – she’ll have to remember to thank Quinn for reading that part of the blonde’s homework out loud – and she goes with it. Santana takes a step forward and Shelby takes a step back. It’s a rush of power, too, coursing through her bloodstream. “It would be in  _your_  best interest to not go breaking anyone’s face. Pretty or not.”  
  
The feeling of power fizzles out when Shelby grins back at her instead of cowering in fear the way the scene is playing out in Santana’s head. “Santana, Santana,” Shelby says, shaking her head. “Take a seat.”  
  
“I don’t feel like it,” she says firmly. “I’ll stand.”  
  
Shelby shrugs. “I’m going to sit, then.” It takes a moment for her to settle, but when she does she looks up at Santana with dark eyes and just stares at her. “You know,” she finally says. “Out of everyone who works for me, Schuester and those guys included, you’re the only one who would come in here and question me. Maybe that’s not smart, but it’s certainly courageous.” Santana keeps her mouth closed but sits down and reluctantly brings the bag of ice back up to her face. “That’s why Jesse brought you to me. He came back from that run and told me that I would get a kick out of the new family. He said the mother…” Shelby trails off and smirks. “Well, it doesn’t matter what he said about your mother. That’s ancient history,” she says as Santana’s free hand balls up into a fist and rests on the top of the table. Shelby nods and tips her head, surrendering.  
  
“He told me about you. How you gave him so much trouble over that first payment, a little punk with a bad attitude and a scowl like he’d never seen before.” Shelby smiles. “You gave him a lot more trouble than he let on, you know.”  
  
Santana doesn’t nod or agree; she just stares blankly through her one good eye. She’s not sure where this is going anymore, because she’s only here to yell at Shelby about pushing Jesse around like he’s just another employee, like he hasn’t done  _everything_  she’s asked of him.  
  
“I wonder,” Shelby says quietly, catching Santana’s attention. “That new family of yours, the Janssens. I wonder if they were as much trouble as you were in the beginning.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
Shelby crosses her arms over her chest. “I wonder,” she starts to repeat.  
  
“No, I heard you,” Santana says sharply. “What exactly are you saying?”  
  
The fear in her voice must be as transparent as she thinks it is. Shelby stares at her evenly and Santana’s palms start to sweat. She thinks she knows what Shelby is saying – the part of her brain that deals with common sense is telling her that she knows  _exactly_  what Santana thinks she’s saying, but she shakes her head, because… no.  
  
The corner of Shelby’s mouth twitches up. “I’m saying that there are things you should know about this business, Santana. One of them is knowing how to deal with a problem, when to use a little tough love, and when to cut your losses.”  
  
Santana feels her lungs tighten up and something coils inside her chest. The pressure builds and builds until she inhales and there’s a small whine as the air is forced down her closing lungs. The ice against her cheek feels like it’s melting a hundred times faster, the runoff pooling on her collarbone. Problems and tough love and cutting losses – no matter how many times she rearranges the equation in her head, it all adds up to nothing good for Brittany.  
  
“I’m good at what I do,” Shelby is saying over the roar in her ears, “because I can distinguish between these things. And one day, you’ll be able to do that too.”  
  
Shelby stands and leans forward, putting one palm flat on the table while the other hand takes the ice from Santana’s face and places it on the white tabletop. “You’re just going to have learn those steps by doing them first, Santana,” she says quietly.  
She leaves the room almost silently and Santana can’t move except to grab the melting bag of ice in her hand and squeeze it. She’s rooted to her seat, her head pounding as it occurs to her that Shelby kind of complimented her in way that makes her more nervous than it should. It occurs to her that Shelby is more dangerous than Santana ever thought she was. The solid ice left in the bag cracks in her fist as it occurs to her that Shelby must see Brittany the same way she saw a younger Santana: as a threat.  
  
And Santana knows – from the rumors and the hushed whispers and from the slightest of experience – that threats to Shelby don’t stay threats very long.  
  
\---  
  
Jesse’s housekeeper glares at her through the door. “How many times have I told you, troublemaker?” She points in the vague direction of Santana’s face. “You stay away from here.”  
  
Santana waves her hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. Are you gonna let me in?”  
  
“Jesse…”  
  
“Looks better than he did the other day and it’s because of  _me_ , so let me in.”  
  
The woman looks like she wants to slam the door in Santana’s face, but Santana has a point. She was here earlier in the week and when she had left, Jesse had at least been smiling, so that was something.   
  
“Come on,” Santana says quietly. “I bet he told you to let me in.”  
  
Anita sighs and shakes her head, opening the door. The woman hasn’t like her since the first time they met – when Santana was still trying to prove something to everyone and wore her shoes through the house, skidding through the kitchen and spraying mud across the freshly waxed floors.  
  
Jesse thinks it’s hilarious; Santana thinks the woman should just get over it already.  
  
She stomps up the stairs, being sure to make as much noise as possible, if only because it annoys Anita. The added bonus is that it might annoy Mr. St. James and that has always been a favorite activity of hers. Jesse’s door is already open and he’s right where she left him earlier in the week, staring up at his ceiling in his boxers.  
  
It was worse the first time she’d come over and seen him like this, almost all of his body exposed. She had thought he looked bad behind the school, but once he was stripped down to just his goofy Christmas boxers, he looked like one of the apples in the bottom of the basket in the school cafeteria: bruised and mottled and purple where it should be white. He had rolled his eyes and pretended that he didn’t wince when he scoffed like he didn’t care.  
  
Santana closes the door behind her, and flops down next to him on her stomach, her face in a pillow. She breathes in and coughs, the smell of Axe clogging her nose. “Boys smell… gross,” she murmurs, turning her head and sucking in fresh air. “Why do you wear this crap anyway? Does it actually get you girls?”  
  
Jesse rolls his eyes. “What gets you girls?”  
  
“My winning personality,” she boasts. “And the added bonus that I don’t smell like ass.” She fumbles around in her jeans pocket, pulling a scrap of paper out. “Speaking of ass. Berry left you a note on your car. You’re lucky I found it.”  _And not someone else coming to check up on you staying away from Berry_  she doesn’t say. Jesse understands it; she can see it in his eyes right before they spark as he unfolds the sad scrap of paper.  
  
She catches a glimpse of it as he closes it again, before he reaches back blindly and shoves it under his mattress. She thinks it says “I love you” but she doesn’t dwell on it, because it makes her feel like throwing up.  
  
It makes her feel like calling Brittany, too, and that makes her stomach roll even more.  
  
Jesse stretches his neck back and catches sight of the clock. “You’re supposed to be in school.”  
  
“Okay,  _Dad_ ,” Santana grumbles.  
  
“Hey,” he murmurs, his neck twisting again as he really looks at her. “What the hell happened to you?”  
  
She shrugs and grins widely, like a true badass would. She learned that from Jesse – well, the Jesse before this heartsick Jesse St. James who tucks love notes under his mattress, because this Jesse is kind of a wimp who lies in bed and hides his bruises instead of showing them off the way he taught her how to when she was younger. It got her sent home with a note when she used a nasty, foot-shaped bruise for show and tell, but all the kids on the playground had thought it was cool.  
  
“Hit a door.”  
  
Jesse rolls over on his stomach, his eyes squeezes shut. After a minute, he exhales and opens them again, his smile lopsided. “Did you hit a door, or did a door hit you?”  
  
“Man, you should see the door.”  
  
She’s about to laugh it off but he’s prodding at her face, frowning when she rears back from his touch.  
  
“Rachel told me,” he says quietly.  
  
Santana rolls away from his touch. “Then why the hell did you ask?” She sits up, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. She stares out Jesse’s window, overlooking his backyard – which is probably bigger than all the territory Shelby rules over.  
  
Jesse shifts behind her, probably sitting up now. “You need to stop hitting Puckerman. He’s not worth it.”  
  
She stands quickly, frowning. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? Did you see what he did to you?”  
  
“I don’t need you to protect me.”  
  
“No,” she shouts back. “You need someone to pull your head out of your ass. What are you even doing with her, Jesse?”  
  
He shakes his head and stands, mirroring her on the other side of the bed, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t start, Santana.”  
  
She kicks a leg out, catching the frame of the bed. It slams against the wall. “Why the hell do you even work for Shelby?” She swings an arm back, gesturing to the vast green crap outside – she knows it’s grass, she’s just never seen grass that looks like that. “You don’t need the money. You don’t even live inside the lines.”  
  
“My dad owed Shelby some money. I worked off the debt.” He sits down and falls back the mattress. “Sometimes, you’re too much of a hothead, you know that? You’re going to get yourself killed.”  
  
“ _You’re_  going to get yourself killed,” she grumbles. Sighing, Santana falls back next to him. “There’s a girl.”  
  
Jesse smirks. “There always is.”  
  
She frowns. “Unlike your  _girl_ , mine isn’t a tranny.” She moves her head away when he half-heartedly slaps blindly at her. “Unlike your tranny, she’s not actually my girl. Yet,” she adds quickly. “I’m working on it.”  
  
“The new family.” It’s not a guess, but she nods anyway and Jesse still smirks. “Good luck there.”  
  
Santana rolls back over. “Jesse,” she says quietly, listening to the hum of Anita vacuuming somewhere downstairs, maybe the living room. “Berry. She worth it?”  
  
She’s not sure if he realizes this, but his hands reach for where he just shoved that stupid note under his mattress and there’s her answer right there. Berry is worth it, apparently, and Santana rolls her eyes, because if  _Berry_  is worth it, then Brittany is definitely worth it.  
  
Maybe she’ll stop by that house again in a day or two, just to test the waters and give it a try.  
  
Brittany has already slammed the door in her face once; Santana is sure she can handle it if it happens again.  
  
\---  
  
Santana rubs faintly at her elbow and rings the doorbell, tapping her foot against the step to the song she’s singing in her head, something she heard Berry humming to herself in between classes. The door opens and she’s ready with a smile, feeling it tug awkwardly at the corners of her mouth. Smiling isn’t unfamiliar – she does it often enough with the right people. Smiling on cue, though, feels too formal and too forced and too fake.  
  
The forceful feeling vanishes when she looks down and Kathryn is grinning back up at her.  
  
“You!” she shouts, pointing.  
  
Santana grabs the little hand and shakes it. “Me.”  
  
Kathryn frowns at her. “You never came backs to play.”  
  
“Sorry,” she says, absolutely genuine. “I got busy.”  
  
Kathryn’s hand slips out from hers and latches onto her t-shirt, tugging her forward until Santana is bent in half, eye-level with the little girl. Blue eyes –  _they look like Brittany’s, but a little brighter_  - peer at her seriously and she’s so caught in the color of Kathryn’s eye she doesn’t expect it when a finger pokes her cheekbone right under her eye.  
  
“Ouch,” she hisses, reeling as far back as she can with Kathryn still holding her shirt. “What’d you do that for?”  
  
Kathryn frowns. “What’d you do that for?” she parrots.  
  
“I didn’t do it,” she says, frowning. She rolls her eyes and untangles Kathryn’s fingers from her shirt and steps back. “Someone else did.”  
  
“What’d they do that for?”  
  
The door opens wider and Brittany steps out onto the stoop, squinting at the sun shining directly in her eyes. “Who did what?”  
  
Santana rocks back on her heels and hooks her fingers in her belt loop, smirking at the blonde. She remembers half a second too late – which is weird, because the side of her face is pulsating – that her cheekbone has a nasty bruise and even Quinn’s best concealer couldn’t hide the ugly purplish-hue around her eye. Brittany gasps sharply and claps one hand over her mouth while the other reaches forward and tangles in her t-shirt, pulling her closer.  
  
“Jeez,” Santana breathes out cautiously. “You guys are grabby.” They’re as close as they were on the couch; probably closer since every breathe Brittany exhales, Santana breathes in. Her hands find Brittany’s waist, holding on as the blonde steps closer, her nose grazing Santana’s chin as she inspects the bruise. Brittany’s fist presses against the hollow of her throat and it’s dangerously close to cutting off her air supply, but she’s too concerned with the way her shirt rides up so she can feel the buckle of Brittany’s belt, cool and metal, brush across the skin below her belly button.   
  
“Who did this?” Brittany asks again, the words sliding across Santana’s cheek.  
  
The shame she didn’t feel after first realizing she had a black eye surfaces as Brittany tips her head back. Usually she doesn’t have to answer these questions; Quinn stopped asking after a while, her mom never started, Jesse was usually sporting the same injuries, and her teachers never care enough to ask about anyone. But Brittany is staring at her with a frown, her forehead pulled together and her fingertips are warm as they trace the outline of the bruise and it makes Santana feel ashamed for showing up like this in the first place. Her knuckles start to throb underneath the scabbed-over skin and she winces when Brittany presses a little too hard at the yellowing corner of her eye. She looks down, avoiding Brittany’s gaze, and focuses on Kathryn staring at them quietly.  
  
“Santana,” Brittany says firmly. “Who did this?”  
  
Santana tries to smirk and twists her neck until Brittany’s hand isn’t touching her anymore. Her feet move back to put distance between them even. Brittany’s hand tightens around the fabric of her t-shirt and the blonde shakes her head, her mouth in a firm, thin line.  
  
She’s about to tell Brittany to let it go, because she’s starting to feel a little embarrassment, being handled by a girl like Brittany, but the blonde is cocking her head to the side like she’s getting a big idea and then Santana’s hand is being lifted between them. “No,” she says reflexively, pulling her hand away. “Quit it.”  
  
Brittany sees the cuts though, and drops her hand quickly. “Hey, Kathryn,” she says brightly, turning and smiling at her little sister.  
  
Santana is a little confused by the sudden change, but by the time she looks down, Kathryn is dancing around her in a circle singing a song that in a language that doesn’t sound like English.  
  
“Santana and I are going to take a walk, okay, little one?”  
  
Kathryn pouts. “But I wanna go with Santana-nana.” She turns to Santana with big eyes. “I can come, right?”  
  
“No,” Brittany says before Santana can try and deflect the question. “Remember what we told you?”  
  
“I can’t goes off the steps,” Kathryn says sullenly. Santana hides her smirk behind her hand. “Not fair.”  
  
Brittany reaches down and brushes Kathryn’s hair out of her eye. “Someday, you’ll be able to come with us. Right now, you have to stay here until we get back from our walk, okay?”  
  
The little girl sighs heavily and her shoulder’s slump, but she nods and tugs on Santana’s shirt again until she kneels down next to her. “Come backs soon,” she whispers into Santana’s ear. She’s loud, though, and Santana catches the tail end of her smile.  
  
Even the tail end of a smile makes Santana want to smile back.  
  
Brittany pushes her down the steps gently and she waves goodbye to Kathryn over her shoulder. The blonde waits until they’re a house past Brittany’s until she pulls Santana to a stop, taking her hand back. “Now tell me what you did. And don’t lie to me, either.”  
  
“I told you,” Santana starts. Brittany frowns and presses a finger into Santana’s cheek. “Hey,” Santana hisses. “What the hell was that for?”  
  
“For lying to me.” Brittany pushes again, gently. “Go ahead. Lie to me again and see what happens.”  
  
Santana has heard that line before, but for the first time she’s a little nervous of  _what happens_  if she lies again. “I got into a fight.”  
  
“No, really,” Brittany says mockingly. “With who.”  
  
Santana wraps her fingers around Brittany’s wrist and pulls her hand away. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she says quietly.  
  
It doesn’t. The way Brittany is looking at her and standing so close, she has too many other things to worry about; things like remembering if this t-shirt is clean, and if she’s breathing properly, and how close would Brittany let her lean in before she pushed Santana away. She can hardly feel the pain anymore and when she smiles, it doesn’t hurt as the muscles of her face pull.  
  
“Where are we going?” she asks after a minute.  
  
Brittany blinks. “What?”  
  
“Well, you said we were going on a walk, didn’t you? Where are we going?”  
  
“Oh,” Brittany says quietly. “I guess…”  
  
Santana doesn’t want to hear her say that she didn’t really mean they could go on a walk. Brittany is getting that look in her eyes again, the one that looks a little like pity, and Santana feels like a yo-yo now, unsure of which way Brittany is going. “Never mind,” she says, letting go of Brittany’s hand. “You go back inside. I’ve got things to do anyway.”  
  
Brittany stands a little straighter and frowns at her. “Well we’re going on a walk, so do your things later.”  
  
It’s like whiplash. She had it once, when Jesse got the big idea to race a kid from the Carmel district. Jesse had lost control of the wheel on the turn and the whole car had spun like a top. She had a seatbelt on – it pressed across her front so tightly that she had a weird bruise for the longest time – but when the car came to a stop the kid had hit them from the side. Santana slammed her head against the dash and then off the headrest and when she stopped moving, her head ached so hard she threw up twice on the floor of the passenger seat. This whiplash, though, the Brittany-whiplash makes her feel less like she wants to throw up and more like she has a million butterflies inside her stomach, all going in different directions.   
  
“I don’t have ‘things’ to do,” she admits as they start working. “I was just saying that.”  
  
“Yeah,” Brittany says. Santana glances out of the corner of her eye and gives a small smile when she see Brittany looking at her. “I figured you were only saying that.”  
  
Santana shrugs. “You seemed like you needed a push to make the right decision.”  
  
“Oh, and the right decision is taking a walk with you?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Santana says lightly. “You’re the one who made the decision. You tell me.”  
  
Brittany rolls her eyes and hooks her thumb to the left. “Want to go to the elementary school? They have swings.”  
  
“The swings are so low to the ground,” Santana grumbles, crossing the street anyway.  
  
“So?”  
  
“So,” Santana repeats. “Your knees,” she says, looking up and down Brittany’s sweat pant-clad legs, “are going to be up around your ears. You’re going to look like a loser. I’m _way_  too cool to be hanging out with a loser.”  
  
Brittany jumps up onto the curb, lifting her body weight up onto her toes, holding the pose. Santana stops and watches as the blonde turns in a slow circle and she thinks about whistling lowly, but this isn’t just some girl, like Jesse’s friends from school or Tina Cohen-Chang; this isn’t just another girl Santana wants to jerk around with. So she smiles instead of wolf-whistling, because Brittany smiles back at her and she’s sure, if she had done what she usually does, Brittany would have hit her in other eye, balancing things out.   
  
“How was my balance?”  
  
Santana blinks a few times and realizes that Brittany is talking to her. “Oh. It was good. Real great.”  
  
Brittany grins at her. “I teetered.”  
  
“You what?” Santana nudges Brittany out of the way of old lady Del Monico’s way with her elbow, flinching a bit at the pain that follows. Her elbows are still scabbed over, less than her hands but enough that there’s a dull ache in her funny bone now.  
  
“I teetered. Almost toppled too,” Brittany says, looking at Santana like she should know this.  
  
Santana was so far in her head, debating the merits of smiling or wolf-whistling at Brittany that she missed the moment where Brittany wobbled. “Oh,” she says lamely. “Well. It still looked… nice.”  
  
When they reach the gap in the fence between the Patterson’s and the Nash’s, Santana steps over the broken boards and into the alley that separate the two houses. Puck had broken it down a few years ago during a fight with some kids from the next county and the city hadn’t bothered to repair it; they figured it was probably going to get broken again by teenagers – that the girls from Jane Addams got into a scuffle and almost tore down the whole fence a week later only proved that point – there was no reason to waste money fixing it. Brittany’s fingers hook through her belt loops and when Santana glances back, the blonde shrugs.  
  
“I don’t want to get lost.”  
  
Santana doesn’t point out that it’s the middle of the afternoon and the alley is free of broken glass because there’s an odd fluttering in her chest at the thought of Brittany holding onto her. Even if it’s just her belt loops. “It’s a shortcut. Instead of going all the way around and down by the corner store, you can cut through here and get there in half the time.”  
  
“Well look at you,” Brittany drawls. “Neighborhood tour guide.”  
  
“Watch it or I’ll start charging,” Santana warns, smirking back.  
  
Brittany pauses and tilts her head down and when she looks up, her face is serious and her eyes seem like they’re boring through Santana. “What are you charging?” Santana feels a small tug around her waistline and her lower half slips forward half an inch closer to Brittany. “I mean, if you were charging, what would you charge””  
  
“A fee,” Santana breathes out, her words breaking. “I’d collect-”  
  
Brittany breaks away, stepping to the side and lifting a hand to shield her eyes. “Is that it?” she asks, not waiting for an answer before she steps past Santana and out onto the sidewalk. Santana takes a deep breath and turns around slowly.  _What the hell just happened?_  she asks herself, jogging across the street after the blonde.  
  
She’s already sitting on the swings by the time Santana catches up, rocking back and forth idly. “I was right,” Santana says smugly. “You look ridiculous.”  
  
Brittany snorts. “Says the girl with the black eye.”  
  
“It makes me look like a badass,” she boasts.  
  
“It makes you look like an abuse victim,” Brittany mutters quietly. She clears her throat. “What happened?” she asks again.  
  
Santana groans. “Don’t start, okay?” She sighs as Brittany gives her an  _okay, fine_  look and turns away from her. She looks at the ground, staring at her feet, suddenly seeing an image of blonde hair matted to a pale forehead, blood slick against the side of Brittany’s face. “We could play twenty questions,” she offers, feeling stupid for suggesting it. Brittany turns back to her, though, smiling, and the stupid feeling fades into something that feels like importance.  
  
“You go first. Favorite ice cream.”  
  
Santana makes a face. “Lactose intolerant.”  
  
Brittany pats her shoulder reassuringly, her hand lingering and sliding down Santana’s bicep to her elbow, curling around the crook. Santana’s swing sways to the right, towards Brittany’s, and the blonde smiles at her. “I like vanilla. Don’t judge me,” she says quickly. Santana realizes she’s probably making a weird face at her. “I like it because it’s simple. And because you can put so much stuff on it to make it taste even better. Like cherries.”  
  
After a moment of silence, Santana shakes her head. “Just cherries?”  
  
Brittany shrugs. “I like cherries.”  
  
Santana laughs for a moment but it seizes up in throat and stays lodged there as Brittany’s hand slides down her arm to her wrist, pausing for a moment – that feels like a lifetime to Santana – and then continues, cradling her hand, brushing against her scarred knuckles. She feels like her lungs are going to burst and the pressure builds and builds and just as she thinks she’s going to combust – she saw it once, on SpikeTV, where a woman just blew up into a hundred pieces – Brittany’s hand flutters away. She opens her mouth to protest, but just as she’s about to try and stammer her way through a “reasons why you should hold my hand” speech, Brittany’s hand is back.  
  
She looks down at their hands, staring intently at the combination of her tan-and-bloodstained-hand and Brittany’s pale, graceful one.  _Piano hands_  her mother would have called them once upon a time.  _Hands made to dance across the keys_. Her hands may not dance, but her feet do, and Santana figures that might be the same thing in the end.  
  
“I guess I like chocolate ice cream too,” Brittany says quietly. “Sometimes the flavor is a little too strong, but whenever I have it, that’s exactly what I’m looking for, even if I don’t know it.”  
  
Brittany’s hand glides against her palm again, her fingers trailing along Santana’s, as if Brittany is pulling away. Santana wants to curl her hand up and just keep Brittany’s hand inside her own, but the blonde is sliding and sliding off to the side and it’s like the air in Santana’s lungs is going with it.  
  
Their pinkies catch.  
  
Instead of smiling and letting go, Brittany ducks her head a little and tightens the grip, rocking her swing forward, pulling Santana’s swing along.  
  
“I like strawberry too. I like them when they’re all together,” Brittany continues. “Chocolate and vanilla and strawberry all in a bowl together. With a cherry on top.”  
  
Santana feels like she can breathe again. “I might like that.”  
  
Brittany nods seriously. “If you ate ice cream, I know you would.” She figures she’ll have to take Brittany’s word for it, so she nods and lets herself drift back and forth as Brittany talks about how strawberry ice cream is false advertising, because there  _should_  be real strawberries in it and there isn’t.  
  
It’s the first time in a long time she gets home late for a reason other than collecting from people or hanging at Shelby’s.


	6. Part 6

  
The doorbell rings. Santana looks up from her plate of eggs and frowns. The doorbell is an unfamiliar sound – she’s heard plenty of doorbells ring, but the sound of her own doorbell is as foreign to her ears as the language Puck’s mom uses around Easter – He-something or other. Out of the doorbells she’s heard, hers is kind of annoying.  
  
She takes her eggs with her, using the plate as a reason to not look into the living room as she walks by it. Her mom has been in there for a few days now, not even getting up at night to roam the house, just sprawled on the couch with the television playing quietly in the background. Santana had made tons of noise this morning while she made eggs – slamming the pan against the stovetop, letting the refrigerator door rattle closed, and while dropping the metal spatula had been an accident, it was still loud. Every time she made a noise, she paused and waited for the volume of the television to turn up, but all she got was the same gentle murmur no matter how hard she tossed the hot pan into the metal-basin of the sink. Shoveling a pile of eggs onto her fork, she thrusts it into her mouth as she opens the door.  
  
“That’s attractive,” Brittany says, grinning. She smiles wider and points. “You have some… egg. On your face.”  
  
Santana almost drops her plate in her haste to wipe it off, but Brittany catches it at the last second, righting it. “Thanks,” she says sheepishly.  
  
Brittany rolls her eyes. “Because it was so much of an effort.” She looks pointedly over Santana’s shoulder, into the house. “Aren’t you going to ask me to come inside?”  
  
She wants to say “ _absolutely not_ ”. There are a million reasons Santana shouldn’t let Brittany inside: her mother, the dust on the mantle, the infomercial channel, her mother, the mess in the kitchen, her mother, the dark hallways, her mother, the trash she forgot to take out the night before, her mother… But Brittany is bouncing on the tips of her toes and she has this expectant look in her eyes and Santana doesn’t want to be the one who lets her down. She stands to the side, holding her plate of eggs, and takes a deep breath before following Brittany into the house.  
  
The blonde stands in the front hall waiting for her when Santana turns around. Brittany cocks her head in the direction of the living room but Santana pretends she doesn’t see it and heads into the kitchen, grabbing as many pans as she can in one hand and pushing them into the sink. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “I didn’t get a chance to clean up.”  
  
“That’s okay. Want some help?”  
  
Santana pushes Brittany’s hands away when they reach for the sponge in the sink. “No, no. You’re, like, the guest. Did you want me to make you some eggs or something?”  
  
Brittany shakes her head. “I already ate. My aunt makes these really great crepes.” She uses her finger to trace an imaginary line along Santana’s wrist. “You should come over and have some one day.”  
  
“Maybe,” Santana says quietly, her breath hitching as Brittany’s fingernail skips across her pulse. “Fancy food isn’t really my thing,” she admits. “I like eggs and toast. Sometimes I use pepper to spice things up.”  
  
Brittany smirks. “Crepes aren’t really fancy. It’s just batter. Like pancake stuff, and sometimes she puts strawberries inside of it. And that’s when it’s really good.”  
  
Santana shrugs and scrapes the extra eggs onto a paper plate, sliding it into the microwave out of habit. Her mom might eat it later, probably not, but she puts it aside anyway. Brittany raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Santana nudges her towards the kitchen table and continues to push things in the kitchen around until it looks a little less like a mess.  
  
“Did I interrupt something?”  
  
She turns from the stove where she’s absentmindedly scratching off some burned-on rice and frowns. “No. I was just eating breakfast.”  
  
Brittany nods towards the living room again. “I wasn’t sure if you were watching TV or something.”  
  
“Oh,” Santana says quietly. “No.”  
  
It’s clear Brittany is curious but Santana ignores her and gives up on the rice, piling the old newspapers on the counter into one giant mass of newsprint. “What are you doing here?” she asks, her back to the blonde.  
  
“You haven’t come over in a couple of days,” she hears Brittany say. “So if you weren’t going to come and see me, I figured I’d come and see you. Was that okay?”  
  
She turns around quickly. “Yeah,” she says quickly. “Yeah, that’s fine. I’ve been meaning to…”  
  
Brittany waves her hand dismissively. “It’s not like I was waiting,” she says lightly, even though the way Brittany ducks her head makes Santana hope it’s a lie, that Brittany really was waiting around for her to show up. “I just thought, since we were hanging out at the park…”  
  
“I wanted to,” Santana interrupts. “I had some stuff to do.”  
  
Stuff like watching to make sure Jesse was still breathing while he slept and keeping Berry from knocking down his door and making sure her mom at least poked at the rice she made.  
  
Brittany’s nose wrinkles. “You always have ‘stuff to do’.”  
  
“I’m a busy girl,” she kids. She puts down the newspapers and moves to the table, looking down at Brittany. “I’m not doing anything now, though. Did you want to hang out?”  
  
“Can you show me your house?”  
  
Santana winces a little, because her room is just disgusting. There’re clothes everywhere and the bed hasn’t been made in weeks and it’s not all that awesome for impressing people. Her room is nothing like Brittany’s. It has dark corners and a layer of dust under the bed that could choke a person if they tried to breathe it in; nothing like the yellow walls Brittany has.  
  
“This is the kitchen,” she says slowly. “It’s the only room that matters.”  
  
Brittany gives her an  _”oh, please”_  look and stands, edging around Santana and back into the front hall, taking the first couple of stairs. “Are you coming?”  
  
She’s hesitant to follow, but she does anyway, stepping in front of Brittany at the top of the stairs and leading the way to her room. Santana takes a deep breath and pushes the door open slowly, sighing in relief when she sees that she opened the shades so it doesn’t look so much like an underground cave. “This is it,” she announces, her voice echoing in the room. “Nice, right? Let’s go.”  
  
Brittany dances around her hands when Santana reaches forward to pull her back out of the room. She flops down on the bed and stares at the ceiling, smiling. “It’s nice in here.”  
  
“It’s not,” Santana argues. “Come on. Let’s go do something outside.” She plasters on a smile. “We could call Quinn and Finn and go-”  
  
“Bowling?” Brittany laughs. “Do you guys do anything but bowl?”  
  
Cautiously, Santana sits on the edge of her bed. “There’s not much else to do around here. It’s either bowling. Or the park. Or… driving around in circles.”  
  
Brittany sighs and turns her head, pressing it into Santana’s pillow. “That’s so boring,” she says, her words muffled. Santana feels a hand brush her side, tickling her rib cage, and though her first reaction is to shy away from it and laugh, but her body pushes into the touch and her skin burns a little as it lingers when Brittany’s hand pulls away. “We could watch a movie,” she says.  
  
Santana rolls onto her stomach and shakes her head. “We only have one television.”  
  
“Well, would your mom mind if we watched one?”  
  
Brittany’s eyes are closed so Santana watches her breathing, watches the rise and fall of her chest and the way her stomach dips down. Her hand hovers over where Brittany’s belly button is and she realizes how creepy she’s being. She pulls her hand away as Brittany cracks one eye open, waiting for an answer. “Well?”  
  
“My mom’s watching TV,” Santana says firmly.  
  
The blonde sits up. “Then let’s go watch it with her.” She grabs Santana’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and tugs Santana off the bed. They’re halfway down the stairs before Santana starts to freak out a little and she pulls on Brittany’s hand, willing them to stop moving. She should have known: Brittany is a dancer, and that kind of thing takes muscle – not the same muscle it takes for Santana to be able to punch Puck a few times, but the kind of muscle that lasts longer, that sustains. Brittany is stronger than her and she’ll never admit that out loud, but when she tries to get Brittany to stop, all she does is manage to slow her down. “Come on,” Brittany urges.  
  
They’re in the living room before Santana manages to get her mouth to work and Brittany pulls up short without warning. Santana’s body molds around Brittany, her free hand sliding around Brittany’s waist to keep herself from falling over, their joined hands hanging between them.  
  
Grace Lopez doesn’t turn her head towards them, but Santana has picked up on the subtleties by now and when her eyes blink once more than normal, she knows her mother knows they’re in the room. It’s like dealing with a stroke patient, like she saw on television: blink once for yes and twice for no.   
  
“Mom,” she says quietly, not moving from behind Brittany. Her hand has found its way to Brittany’s hip and is settled there. “Mom, I want you to meet someone.”  
  
Her mother doesn’t move, the way most people would if company came over.  
  
“Mom,” Santana says a little louder, letting go of Brittany’s hip and moving towards the couch, forgetting that her hand is still laced with Brittany’s. “I’m talking to you.”  
  
Grace blinks slowly and turns her head just enough to see Santana. “Hi,” she says quietly.  
  
“Hey,” Santana says just as softly. “Hold on, okay? I have some leftover breakfast.” She unwinds her fingers from Brittany’s and darts into the kitchen, grabbing the plate so quickly it tips to one side and half of the eggs hit the countertop. She grabs a fork and rushes back into the living room.  
  
She stops in the doorway and stares. Brittany has moved and is sitting next to her mom on the couch, looking at the television like she’s genuinely interested in the infomercial that’s playing. “I’ve always wanted a waffle iron,” she says out loud.  
  
Grace doesn’t react to the statement and Santana’s stomach drops a little. “Mom,” she says loudly, moving into the room. She grabs the table tray in the corner of the room and opens it, setting it in front of her mother, placing the eggs on top. “Here. Eat something.”  
  
Brittany smiles at her widely, tilting her head to the empty seat next to her.  
  
“Mom,” Santana urges, hyper-aware of Brittany watching her. She doesn’t plead or kneel down to her mother’s eye level; not in front of Brittany. “You have to eat this, okay?”  
  
Her mother looks up at her and nods slowly. “I don’t like eggs.”  
  
Santana sighs. “I know you don’t, but we’re out of cereal. I have to go to the store, but you should eat the eggs. I’ll have cereal tomorrow.”  
  
Grace pushes the plate an inch further from her. “I don’t like eggs.”  
  
“Mom…”  
  
“Santana,” her mother says firmly. Her voice is hard and has an edge to it that Santana hasn’t heard since they moved into the neighborhood, since the first time Santana came home from a fight with torn jeans and a ripped t-shirt. It shakes her a little and she physically steps back, unused to hearing that tone directed at her in this house. “I don’t like eggs.”  
  
Santana puts her hands up in defense and takes a step closer to the couch, noticing the hard glint in her mother’s eyes. “Mom, we’re out of cereal.”  
  
“I  _told_  you,” Grace says. “I told you I hate eggs. And all you do is give me eggs.”  
  
Santana reaches one hand out. “I’m sorry. I’ll get cereal,” she promises, but she’s too late. The light in her mother’s eyes have gone out again, and when she blinks, her body seems to deflate from the way it had lifted up and straightened out. “No,” she whispers to herself, wanting to reach out and shake her mother. It would be no use; Grace Lopez is staring at her blankly again, her mouth turned down in a slight frown.  
  
Brittany’s hand winds itself around Santana’s and she suddenly remembers she’s not alone. She blinks a few times to clear the stinging in her eyes and drops onto the couch, as far away from Brittany as she can get, pushed into the arm of the couch.  
  
“You should go,” she says quietly.  
  
For once, Brittany doesn’t try and argue with her. The blonde waits a second, to see if Santana will change her mind, probably, but then she nods and slides forward off the couch, rocking on the edge. “You can call me later, if you want. Or you could stop by.” She doesn’t wait for Santana to answer, but she leans over and her face hovers near Santana’s before she murmurs a goodbye Santana feels more than she hears. She feels a kiss pressed by her ear and then Brittany is gone and the door is clicking shut.  
  
A part of her wants to chase after Brittany and explain to her, but the part of Santana Lopez that shuts down and locks up whenever her pride is at stake takes over and her muscles contract and she stays on the couch next to her mother.  
  
“Mom,” she says one more time.  
  
There’s the smallest, smallest, part of her, hidden away behind her heartache and the cement she’s poured in over the years to keep the cracks closed, that breathes a sigh of relief when her mother doesn’t say anything back.  
  
\---  
  
Quinn nudges her hard in the ribs and Santana loses her balance, stumbling off the sidewalk into the bike lane. She rounds on her best friend, glaring hard, but Quinn only smiles sweetly at her and offers her a hand up.  
  
“Jerk,” Santana mutters under her breath, taking the hand anyway. “What was that for?”  
  
Quinn tips her head towards the other side of the street. “Isn’t that Brittany? That’s her name, right?”  
  
Santana’s head whips around so fast her neck clicks. Sure enough, there’s Brittany across the street coming out of the Abrams’s grocery store with Kathryn, Finn ducking out the doorway a step later. Santana glances out of the corner of her eye and smirks when Quinn’s eyes light up a little at the sight of the Iron Giant bounding along the sidewalk.  
  
She grabs Quinn’s arm and drags her across the street, walking a few feet behind them, hanging back.  
  
“…And there was a princess. She had long, long hair and a pretty pairs of shoe,” Kathryn is saying.  
  
“A pretty  _pair_  of  _shoes_ ,” Brittany corrects.  
  
Kathryn is turning around – probably to frown at Brittany for correcting her – when she stops and her mouth drops open comically. Santana barely has time to brace herself before she’s hit in the legs with the force of a running kid. Tiny arms are around her knees, gripping the back of her jeans and Kathryn grins up at her.  
  
It’s odd. Kathryn is always excited to see her,  _genuinely_  excited to see her, all the time. Even with the black eye, Kathryn had been excited to see her when the little girl pulled the door open.  
  
“Santana-nana,” she says loudly. “Hi, hi!”  
  
Santana hoists Kathryn up and onto her hip. “Hey yourself, missy.”  
  
Quinn looks confused for a second, but the confusion evaporates as Hudson comes up beside her, dropping his arm around her shoulders. Santana watches her lean into his side and she’s torn between being concerned that Hudson’s body is just going to swallow Quinn whole and disgusted that Quinn looks so goddamn excited to see him.   
  
A pale hand enters her line of sight as Brittany pushes back Kathryn’s hair. “Hey,” she breathes out.  
  
“Hi,” Santana says, avoiding Brittany’s gaze. She hadn’t followed any of Brittany’s suggestions to call or stop by. The shame had been too overwhelming and the dreams she’s been having hadn’t done anything to reassure her. Dreams where Shelby tells her to get the job done  _or else_  and Brittany stares at her pitifully from across the room – one giant reoccurring nightmare where she always has blood on her hands.  
  
Kathryn bounces on her hip. “I want ice cream.”  
  
Hudson grins like a kid. “I love ice cream!”  
  
Santana gets swept up in the excitement of it and they’re outside the Dairy Queen by the time she catches up again. She lets Kathryn wriggle out of her arms and she misses the warmth that comes with another human being. Brittany’s hand slides into her own and it flares back up again as she’s tugged inside the building after Quinn and Hudson.  
“Are you going to be okay?” She raises and eyebrow at Brittany as they stand in line. “Because you’re lactose intolerant and you can’t get ice cream,” Brittany clarifies. “You’re not upset, right?”  
  
She snorts. “I’ll be fine. I’m not that hungry anyway.”  
  
“You can have my cherry,” she offers. “I mean, I’ll probably ask for two, so if you have one, it won’t be like I’m missing anything.”  
  
Santana squeezes Brittany’s fingers. “Thanks,” she murmurs. Kathryn is suddenly high above the ground, perched on Hudson’s shoulders and she waves at them. “He might drop her,” she warns.  
  
Brittany waves back and shrugs. “She’ll be fine. He does it all the time.”  
  
There’s an awkward surge of jealousy that rushes through her at the thought of Hudson  _doing that all the time_  with Kathryn. It makes her wonder how much time Hudson spends with Brittany and Kathryn and the idea that she’s even getting jealous over it makes her stomach churn like she really did just eat ice cream. Brittany notices, though, in the way Santana’s arm stiffens and the rest of her body tilts away from Brittany like she’s trying to peer into the glass case of ice cream flavors.  
  
“He’s helping build a shed in the back yard,” Brittany continues.  
  
That just makes it worse. She’s being irrational, because Hudson is dating Quinn and they’re so clearly into each other it’s pathetic, but there’s another picture in her head forming, of Brittany sitting in her backyard while Hudson wields a power tool, conveniently not wearing a shirt. It’s not all that of an impressive image, because daydream-Hudson still has the body he did when he was thirteen –a little fleshy and soft around the edges – but Brittany doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who would care about that.  
  
Brittany squeezes her hand. “Santana.”  
  
She doesn’t turn her head until Brittany squeezes her hand a few more time. “Hmm?”  
  
“He’s a friend. Who’s dating your friend.” She smiles at Santana. “If you keep making that face, you’re going to scare people away.”  
  
“Good,” she says gruffly. “They should be scared of me. I’m dangerous.” She resists the urge to flex her muscles, because she’s not Puck, but she bares her teeth a little because she can.  
  
It’s kind of humiliating that Brittany lets out a sharp bark of laughter but the sting is soothed as the blonde leans into her, bumping their shoulders together and staying close even when she pulls back away. “You’re something,” she says.  
  
Quinn sidles up next to her and taps the glass. “I think I’ll get Rocky Road. But Finn wants Chocolate Chip.”  
  
Santana makes a face. “Who cares what he wants. Get what you want.” She gets a sharp elbow to both sides and ducks the hand that flies towards the back of her head, grinning in triumph at Quinn. “Missed.”  
  
Brittany nudges her again, softer this time. “Be nice,” she commands.  
  
Quinn is the one grinning now. “Yeah, Santana.  _Be nice_.”  
  
“Shut up,  _both_  of you,” she adds, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Can I have Cherry Arctic Rush? And…” She turns to Brittany. “What did you want?”  
  
“Oh, you don’t have to get it,” Brittany says quickly.  
  
Santana frowns. “I want to.”  
  
“But you don’t have to,” Brittany says again. Her free hand pats her pocket. “My aunt always gives us money whenever we leave the house, so I have enough.”  
  
“Yeah,” Santana says slowly. “But I want to.”  
  
She’s trying to get a point across, but Brittany doesn’t seem to be getting it. Sure, the Neanderthal and Quinn and Kathryn might be with them, but Brittany is holding her hand and smiling at her in a way that Quinn or Kathryn or even Jesse never smile at her. And she might not be good at reading these kinds of situations – the kind where she’s not reading the fear in someone’s face before she’s pressing them for cash – but that smile  _means_  something and it makes her  _feel_  something.  
  
It makes her feel like she’s on a date and she wants to do it right, whatever  _right_  means. She’s sure Brittany refusing to let her pay is  _wrong_  and she can’t stop the flush of embarrassment that comes as she thinks maybe she’s reading into this wrong.  
  
“You don’t-”  
  
“Fine,” Santana says hoarsely. “Pay for yourself.” She turns back to the girl behind the counter. “Just the Cherry Rush,” she says, her words clipped.  
  
She gets her slush and untangles her hand from Brittany’s, busying it by wrapping it around the cup, holding it like she holds her coffee cups: close to her chest, like she’s trying to draw warmth from it. Hudson drops Kathryn to the ground and ruffles her hair. The little girl blows it out of her eyes and frowns up at him, ducking behind Santana’s leg.  
  
“Can I have pink?”  
  
Santana shrugs like she doesn’t want to get Kathryn the biggest size ice cream the girl can eat. “Ask your sister.”  
  
Kathryn tugs on Brittany’s sweater and asks her and Santana finds a booth in the corner while everyone else orders. She simulates gagging when Hudson grins dumbly down at Quinn and orders them a bowl of Rocky Road with two spoons. Quinn joins her, pushing her into the corner of the booth while Hudson waits for the ice cream.  
  
“What’s your problem now?”  
  
Santana lifts one eyebrow. “Excuse me?”  
  
“I said, what’s your problem now?” Quinn repeats. “You go from happy enough to freak me out right to surly in no time at all. There are cars that take longer to stop than it takes you to PMS.”  
  
Santana takes an obnoxiously loud sip of her drink. “Nothing’s wrong,” she says in between slurps.  
  
Quinn scoffs. “Bullshit,” she says under her breath. “First you’re laughing with her and then you’re snapping at her.”  
  
“I just wanted to pay for her ice cream,” Santana says angrily, squeezing the plastic cup tightly in her hand. “I mean, it’s not that big of a goddamn deal, right?”  
  
“Well,” Quinn says slowly, gently prying the cup out of Santana’s hand and setting it on the table in front of them. “It wasn’t. Until you got angry about it.”  
  
Santana sighs and lets her head drop, her forehead pressing against the table. It’s not sanitary, sure, but her eyes can’t drift to where Brittany has lifted Kathryn up enough so she can see as the girl behind the counter scoops the hard ice cream out of the big tubs. “I like her,” she says, her words echoing off the ceramic-and-plastic top.  
  
“No, really?” Quinn asks mockingly. “Wonder what gave that away.”  
  
“Shut up,” Santana growls. She pauses and turns her head, still slumped over. “Is it that obvious?”  
  
Quinn nods, smirking. Santana groans again. “Come on.” Quinn nudges her. “I mean, it’s cute that you want to pay for her, but it’s kind of old-fashioned. Plus, I think it creeped her out a little bit. You being nice,” Quinn clarifies. “Sometimes it comes across as… aggressive.”  
  
“Like just now.”  
  
“Like just now,” Quinn confirms.  
  
Santana sits up as Brittany, Hudson and Kathryn approach the booth. Quinn slides around to the other bench and grins up at Finn. Kathryn crawls up onto Santana’s lap, settling on one knee. The little girl talks to her ice cream while Brittany doubles back to the counter and grabs a few napkins, settling in next to Santana cautiously.  
  
She holds out her Cherry Slush, a peace offering. “Want to try some?”  
  
Brittany takes the cup slowly, her hand molding to the marks in the plastic from where Santana gripped it earlier. She takes a slow sip, grinning as she lets go of the straw. “That’s really good.”  
  
Santana grins broadly. “Well, of course it is,” she boasts.  
  
There’s a tense moment where Brittany is just staring at her, blue eyes tracing a line across her face that Santana can feel, but then it passes and Brittany is smiling again and a warm hand is splayed across her leg, right above her kneecap.   
  
It starts feeling like a date again.


	7. Part 7

It’s Tuesday, so she has to make her rounds after school instead of going with Puck across town, to the one liquor store where no one checks your ID, so he can stock up for some party he thinks he’s going to throw. She almost asks Quinn if the blonde wants to go with Puck in her place, but she knows him; knows his moves and his smirks and the way he looks like he can be trusted, when really, he can’t be and more importantly, she knows that Quinn  _really_  likes Hudson. So when he gets one of the girls from their cheerleading team – and  _team_  is really an understatement, since they’re mostly girls who wear those skirts only because there’s a dress code and they can’t come to school in their underwear – she rolls her eyes and pushes Quinn towards her Daddy’s Lincoln.  
  
“Hudson would so not approve,” she says firmly, the tone of her voice leaving no room for discussion. Quinn doesn’t look like she’s going to protest, but Santana misses that look and nods towards the curb. “Besides, Daddy doesn’t look happy today.”  
  
Russell Fabray is leaning against the hood of his car and  _no_ , he doesn’t look happy today.  
  
“Dad,” Quinn says quietly. Santana grins up at him. “Hey, Russ.”  
  
He doesn’t look amused, but Russell Fabray has always had one facial expression and it’s not a smile. “Quinn,” he instructs, the blonde’s head snapping up as he addresses her. It bugs Santana that he has so much control over her, but Quinn  _has_  a dad, so that must count for something. At least, she thinks it must. “Wait in the car.”  
  
Quinn opens her mouth to protest, but it’s a lame gesture. She closes her mouth just as quickly and frowns at Santana, obediently getting into the passenger seat, disappearing behind the tinted windows.  
  
“I didn’t do it.”  
  
Russell’s facial expression doesn’t falter. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“Whatever you’re going to say I did,” Santana says slowly. “I didn’t do it.”  
  
“I didn’t accuse you of anything.”  
  
Santana ducks her head. “Oh. Well.” She looks up sheepishly and tries to grin, but, as expected, Russell doesn’t smile back. “For future reference, anything that happened is Quinn’s fault.”  
  
She wouldn’t say that Russell Fabray is like a father to her. She knows best friends like that, where one family kind of adopts the other kid and the kid calls them “mom” and “dad” like it’s cute. Santana’s doesn’t live in a Lifetime movie, though. Judy Fabray  _thinks_  she’s a bad influence on her daughter – and she might have a point, really. Russell Fabray  _knows_  she’s not a good person; he knows the things she’s done to get what is asked of her, because Russell Fabray isn’t a good guy either. He’s a cog in the wheel. Everyone here is. He’s not a father to her, but if Santana has to put one down on a piece of paper, right this moment, she’d put his name, because he holds power and he knows how to use it and Santana is the kind of girl who can respect that just a little bit.  
  
“Santana, stop talking.”  
  
Her mouth snaps shut instantly.  
  
“Ms. Corcoran wants to see you, as soon as you finish your collection this afternoon.” There’s a flash of something in Russell’s eyes and his mouth is tighter than usual. “For _some_  reason, I’ve been elected messenger. Message delivered. You’ll give your day’s work to her today.” His hands clench a little, like they’re trying to grasp the money that they’re not holding. She’s stumbled upon Russell in his office a time or two, just holding the bills and smoothing them out. Going over his head and bringing the money  _directly_  to Shelby – it’s got to sting a little  
  
Santana’s so caught up in the feeling of being called into the principal’s office that she almost doesn’t notice when Russell turns and starts getting into his car. She reaches for the door. “Well, hey, wait a second, Russ. What does she want me for?”  
  
Quinn’s head pops out from behind her father’s figure, her eyes wide with concern, but Russell gives her an “ _I don’t know and frankly, I don’t care_ ” look before tugging the car door out of her hands. “Ask her yourself.”  
  
The door slams and the car roars to life. Santana steps back onto the sidewalk as the tires squeal and Russell merges the boat of a car into traffic. She glances about nervously, but Hudson is the only one who seems to be paying attention. His face is scrunched up in a way that makes him look almost constipated, but Santana knows he’s just trying to figure out what’s going on. She scowls at him and he looks away, though it might have to do more with Brittany appearing at his side, touching his arm, than anything. Santana looks away too, zipping up the track jacket she took from Quinn’s closet, pulling her backpack tighter on her shoulders.  
  
Jesse has stopped picking her up again for some reason, but Santana doesn’t mind. It was still warm enough that when the sun is out, she doesn’t need a heavy jacket, and Santana likes the solitude anyway.  
  
Santana sets out on her route and tries to hurry. There’s no common sense in making Shelby wait, especially if she doesn’t know why she’s being beckoned. She blows past Tina sitting out on the Cohen-Chang stoop, telling her that she’s running behind and she’ll be back next week; she hardly waits until the Pillsbury lady is done checking Santana’s hands for dirt before she’s taking the airtight envelope of money from the redhead; Ryerson doesn’t even make a creepy statement, but that might have to do with the way she storms the porch and waves her hand dangerously close to his ‘outside’ doll collection.  
  
She doesn’t realize she’s saved Brittany’s house for last until she’s climbing the steps and reaching into the mailbox by the front door. It’s strange, but there’s nothing inside of it – no money, no note, no shoes.  
  
Santana panics.  
  
 _Any day but today,_  the voice in her head screams. Bringing a short collection to Russell wouldn’t be awful. She’d ask him to hold off on the count for just a day, just enough time to get the money. But bringing a short collection to  _Shelby_  is suicide.  
  
“What’s wrong?” she hears. Santana looks down and Kathryn is staring up at her, mouth turned down thoughtfully. “Your eyes are real wide.”  
  
“Nothing,” she breathes out, glancing around the neighborhood. There’s no one around that she can pull some last minute money out of.  
  
She panics a little more. If this were any other house, she’d do what she normally does: knock and knock and knock and drop a few names when the door finally opens – say, _Oh, don’t you remember Bryan Ryan_  – and the money is pushed into her hand in no time. But this is  _Brittany’s_  house and Kathryn is picking at the hole in the knee of Santana’s jeans and Brittany’s aunt has one of the warmest smiles Santana has seen in a while; the kind of smile that seems like it would turn into the worst kind of frown  
  
She can’t just bully them into giving her money. Can she?  
  
 _She can_ , a voice in the back of her head screams. Things like this, she doesn’t even think twice about them, usually.  _Bullying_  people out of their money is how she gets the job done but there’s a part of her that can’t make herself take money from Brittany’s family; a part of her rebels inside her chest, clogging up her airway.  
  
There’s too much pressure. It feels like a hand is squeezing her heart tighter and tighter and her throat closes up and Kathryn’s hand on her leg is just  _too much_. She breaks away from the touch, moving back down the stairs. Kathryn tries to follow her.  
  
“Stay,” Santana manages to say, running her hand across the back of her neck. “You can’t come off the stoop.”  
  
Kathryn looks like she’s going to come down anyway, but Santana steps back and back until she’s stepping off the curb and spinning towards the street, back up the stairs of Ryerson’s house. When he answers, she demands more – a double payment. It looks like, for just a moment – just a moment long enough for Santana’s panic to flare up again – he’s going to resist, but then he’s reaching into a jar shaped liked a dollhouse and pulling out the second payment.  
  
She doesn’t say “ _thank you_ ” but she grunts her acknowledgement and doesn’t swing her arms as she maneuvers around Ryerson’s porch.  
  
Holding the money in her hands, feeling its weight added to the pile she’s already got, makes it easier to breathe. She tucks it gently into the side of her jacket, in the small space right against her ribs so she can feel the money there with every breath she takes. It’s a reassurance and she needs it now more than she ever has before. She looks like she’s smuggling something inside her jacket – and admittedly, she is – but she only folds her arm over her midsection and takes off down the street, ignoring Brittany’s aunt pulling Kathryn back inside.  
  
There is no  _logical_  explanation for why she just did that. Brittany’s aunt seems nothing like Brittany – she might give Santana a few dirty looks and shout at her, but she’d hand over the money; Santana’s good at reading  _people_ , even if she sucks at reading situations. She can see the submission in the corner of Brittany’s aunt’s eyes while Brittany’s eyes are just barely softening at the edges. She knows those eyes. She sees them in the mirror every morning she wakes up.  
  
The point is: she could get the money from Brittany’s aunt, but she doesn’t. She gets it from Ryerson.  
  
 _Money’s money_  the voice in the back of her head, the confident one that she  _always_  listens to, says. Another voice, though, a little softer and a little hesitant, is whispering _What are you doing, Lopez, you stupid, impulsive idiot?_  and picking which one to listen to is suddenly overwhelming and too hard.   
  
Chang is sitting on a crate outside the door of Shelby’s apartment, flipping through a magazine Santana can’t read. “Hey,” he says, frowning up at her. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“She asked for me.”  
  
The panic that she felt before comes back like a punch to the gut. Chang has a mental running list of the people who come and in out of the door and their reasons for it. Except that she’s standing here, cradling a wad of cash – enough cash that could get her in trouble if Shelby didn’t have the cops in her back pocket – and Chang has no idea why she’s here.  
  
He’s rolling his shoulders anyway, a mechanical movement that seems to make him fluid, and opening the door, letting her slip past him. During the day, the place is empty. Schuester and Tanaka are teachers in the next district and the rest of the guys are all running storefronts on Main Street so they don’t fill the small apartment until night time. Without their presence or the smoke or the sound of cards shuffling, the apartment is bigger and unsettling. Santana is sure that Shelby is in the back room, so she takes a moment for herself, just to steel her nerves and man up.  
  
Shelby beats her to it, though, pulling the door open just as Santana is reaching for the knob. “I thought I heard someone,” she says flatly. “Come in.”  
  
The white room is brighter in the daytime. It’s almost blinding and it takes more than a moment for Santana to adjust, but she does and the room comes into focus. It’s just as empty as usual – the table and its two chairs are really the only furniture in the place – but Shelby is sliding back into her seat and Berry looks up from her homework and the room suddenly feels too small.  
  
Berry’s eyes are red around the edges and her face is splotchy across her cheeks.  
  
“Berry,” she says politely. Usually, she’d snap, but this is Berry’s turf and Santana can play by the rules when she really needs to and there’s something in Berry’s eyes that tells her today is not the day.  
  
“Hello, Santana,” she says, her voice shaky.  
  
Shelby crosses one leg over the other, pulling Santana’s attention away from Berry. “Sweetie, do you mind taking your work into the other room?”  
  
Berry sighs and piles her books up, picking up her backpack. “I’m going to the library,” she says quietly.  
  
Shelby smiles, but Berry frowns a little and shakes her head in the annoying motherly way of hers. She turns back to Shelby and takes Berry’s empty seat, forcing her eager-to-bounce legs to stay still.  
  
“Russell got you my message. Good,” Shelby says, opening a folder she has in front of her. It looks like a list of facts, from what Santana can see; like a rap sheet with numbers and letters and far too many words in bold. Someone got format-happy and Santana would put money on Berry being responsible. “We have a problem, Santana.”  
  
She practically throws the money she brought with her across the table. “No,” she protests, her voice unrecognizably high. “No, I collected all the money. I’ve been even for almost a month now. No. There isn’t a problem.”  
  
Shelby lifts one eyebrow and takes the money out of the envelope, smoothing it out and placing it in front of her. “I see,” she says slowly.  
  
“There’s no problem,” Santana repeats furiously. “I did it all.”  
  
“Santana.” Shelby’s voice is sharp, direct. Santana’s mouth snaps shut and she ducks her head. When she was younger, her father would do the same thing – say her name so loud and clear that she would shut up instantly. “I’m not talking about a problem with  _you_.”  
  
She must not hide the confusion as well as she thinks she does, because Shelby shakes her head and skims the folder in front of her. “It’s Jesse.”  
  
Santana sits up in her seat. “Where is he?” she asks sharply. Shelby stares at her blankly. “Where is he?” she asks again, curling her hands into fists. The sinking feeling in her stomach rises violently. She should have called more; should have stopped by to check on him. Instead, she was wasting her time trailing after Brittany like a lost puppy, and she should have been focusing on  _him_. Shelby has a look on her face that tells her the answer she’s already dreading, but she needs to hear it herself.  
  
“He’s underperforming. All of his last hand-ins have been short and he broke the  _one_  rule I gave him.”  
  
 _He slept with Berry_ , she says to herself.  _He slept with Berry and Shelby found out_.  
  
“He slept with my daughter,” Shelby says out loud. She slams the folder shut. “So we need someone new.”  
  
 _Someone new_  means that Jesse is out. It means he’s done being Shelby’s favorite little drummer boy. “What do you mean, we need someone new?”  
  
Shelby looks at her sharply. “I mean it just as it sounds. Jesse broke the one rule I established with him and with all the other boys.” She pauses. “Maybe I should have given you the warning as well, from the things I hear these days.”  
  
A fury rears up inside Santana that overpowers the sinking feeling of despair. “Don’t-”  
  
Shelby cuts her off. “Hudson isn’t an option, because he would set me even further back then Jesse did. Not because he gets special treatment. I can’t risk using him. He’s a sweet kid, but he’s a bigger risk than I’m willing to take.”  
  
“What happened to Jesse,” she asks again, teeth gritted.  
  
“I took care of him,” Shelby says slowly.  
  
There’s something about the way she says it that chills the blood in Santana’s veins. There’s something about the look of absolute calm in Shelby’s eyes that sends her heart pounding. Shelby doesn’t look like it’s a big deal; like Jesse is in his car hitting the road, finally on his way to the West Coast.  
  
Santana has heard stories before: when boys are  _taken care of_  by Shelby Corcoran, the only place their finally on their way to isn’t reachable by car, or plane, or boat.  
  
The room starts to spin violently and she feels like she’s underwater. She can hear the roar of each breath loud in her ear and her palms start to itch. There’s a stinging burn behind her eyes and for the first time in the longest time, that she can remember, Santana just wishes she could cry instead of blink back the tears.  
  
 _Jesse is gone_  her mind screams at her.  _He’s gone and you’re just going to sit there, red in the face, _silently_  wishing for Shelby Corcoran to die a very painful death. He’s gone and you don’t even _, the voice hisses. She balls her fists up, her fingernails cutting into the smooth skin of her palm. They’re slick and for one horrifying moment, she thinks it’s because of the blood coating them. But she’s scraped all the blood out from under her fingernails and there’s nothing left in the lifelines of her palms.  _Jesse is gone_ , the voice sobs.  _Just cry, dammit_.  
  
Shelby clears her throat pointedly and Santana looks up a woman she’s never seen before.  
  
When she was younger, she looked up to Shelby Corcoran. Shelby was strong and powerful and knew what she wanted and how to get it. Santana wanted to  _be_  her. She wanted to be that woman who could command the respect of a room just by walking into it. She wanted to one day find her father and laugh in his face and shout,  _this is what you could have raised. This is the girl you could have called your daughter_.   
  
The woman staring back at her, though, is weak and self-serving and where Santana once saw courage, now she sees  _nothing_. Dark eyes are telling her to get herself together and do it now. Santana flashes back to her last conversation with Shelby and the way certain words hung heavier around her than others. Shelby had been saying something then, but Santana hadn’t picked up on it until now, until it’s too late.  
  
 _Maybe it’s not too late, though,_  she thinks to herself.  _I’ve already lost Jesse, but I can save someone else_. She sits up slowly, wiping her palm against her face, and straightens her shoulders. Her mouth turns down in a hard line and her hands are flat on each knee and she breathes so gently, she feels like she’s a stone statue.   
  
Santana Lopez has put her walls back up.  
  
“Then who are you going to use?” This is business now, and names are running through her head at rapid fire. Puck could pick up another neighborhood, or she could. Jesse works -  _worked_ , she reminds herself – a few different neighborhoods at a time, and Schuester too.   
  
“Her.”  
  
The folder slides into her hands and Santana opens it slowly. She scans the sheet and closes the folder again. “No.”  
  
Shelby frowns. “You know something? You’re using that word an awful lot when you speak to me.”  
  
Santana shakes her head again, though. “No. Not her.”  
  
“And I’m getting pretty tired of hearing you say it to me,” Shelby continues.  
  
“I won’t let you get her involved in this.”  
  
Shelby lifts an eyebrow and Santana flushes as her words register. The older woman crosses one leg over the other slowly, folding her hands in her lap, tilting her head to one side. Santana grips the edge of the table, the back of her neck starting to sweat. “I wasn’t aware,” Shelby says evenly, “that I was giving you a choice.”  
  
Santana sees the tone for what it is and ignores it. “I’ll take the extra neighborhood. She’s not getting involved in this.”  
  
“Santana,” Shelby says, leaning across the table. “Let’s get something straight, here.  _I’m_  in charge of this operation.  _I’m_  the one running the show. You? You’re a chess piece in this game we’re playing and I’m the wizard behind the curtain. You move when I tell you to, you sit when I say you can and you breathe if I let you.”  
  
“With all due respect,” Santana hisses, “I won’t let you bring her into this.”  
  
“Jesse’s dead, Santana.” There’s a terrible calm in Shelby’s voice that sneaks into Santana’s body. Her voice is so disengaged, like she didn’t even  _care_  about him, when everyone knows that Jesse St. James was Shelby’s favorite; he could never do wrong until he did. “He’s dead and that sets me back significantly.”  
  
Santana shakes her head, mostly to clear the haze in her eyes. “Business is all you care about?”  
  
Shelby looks towards the door and gives the smallest sigh. “I don’t want this life for Rachel. I’ve tried to keep her out of it because she has the potential to  _be something_  more than a common thug.”  
  
Santana bristles. “A  _thug_?”  
  
“Jesse, he was going to take over when I eventually decided to go. He was cunning and careful and charming. He knew everything going on with everyone,” she says almost wistfully.  
  
“He was your lap dog,” Santana growls.  
  
“He was slated to take over. He was going to be my successor.”  
  
Santana grits her teeth. “Well, God. That’s too bad you went off and killed him now, isn’t it?”  
  
“As a result of his unfortunate death, I need someone new. Someone ruthless and willing to do anything. Someone like me, who I know will be capable of running this operation without fucking it up.”  
  
Santana has never been more insulted in her life. Being compared to Shelby Corcoran makes her want to lunge across the table and show her what ‘ruthless’ looks like.  
  
“That’s why I’m picking you.”  
  
It takes a moment to sink in. When it does, she still doesn’t understand it. Shelby is choosing her. Out of everyone tied up in this system – Puck and Schuester and even Chang the doorman – Shelby is choosing  _her_  to be the one to take over.   
  
Shelby drags her chair closer to Santana. “You’re a direct result of Jesse’s teaching. You knew all his secrets by day one, Santana. You’re pure, untapped potential.” The awe in Shelby’s voice is disgusting. “You’re a little rough around the edges and a little more prone to the ‘punch fist, talk later’ methodology, but we can work around it. Soon, you could be in charge of everything. You could everyone doing exactly what you ask them to do.”  
  
Santana knows this is supposed to be a tempting offer. She’s sure Jesse felt the same way when he was asked to do this however many years ago. But there’s too much to consider for this to sound promising: Jesse, her mom,  _Brittany_. Her conscience flares up for the first time a while and it tells her to back off, get away, just say no.  
  
People don’t say no to Shelby Corcoran and it suddenly makes sense why she’s not in a body bag for saying it already: Shelby wants her and she needs to be alive for this.  
  
“Not her,” Santana says again, standing. Shelby leans back in her seat and Santana paces the floor, desperate to put some distance between them. “I won’t do this. You can’t bully me into becoming a mini-you.”  
  
Shelby chuckles quietly. “Santana, I’m not giving you a choice,” she repeats. “She’ll be a part of this sooner or later, whether you like it or not. So make a decision. What side of my line do you want to fall on?”  
  
She opens the door and sweeps her arm forward, granting Santana permission to leave. “I expect the  _both_  of you back here within the week, Santana.”  
  
She pushes past, moving away at the last second because knocking shoulders with Shelby Corcoran is a big mistake that even Santana can recognize.  
  
As she leaves the room, Jesse’s death hits her hard in the gut and she feels like doubling over and falling to the ground, just to cry, or scream or  _anything_. But she sees Berry sitting in the corner of main room, her arms around her legs as she rocks back and forth almost impossibly slow, and she doesn’t feel like crying anymore; Berry is crying enough for the both of them now.  
  
Santana just feels like throwing up instead.


	8. Part 8

Brittany comes out of the house with a smile. “I was starting to think you weren’t going to show.”  
  
“Of course I would,” Santana protests, smoothing down a stubborn wrinkle in her t-shirt. She should be wearing a jacket but she’d been too nervous all day and forgot to grab one as she left her house. “Ready to go?”  
  
Brittany’s hand finds hers. “You bet. Just wave to the house, though. I made Kathryn stay inside and she’s bummed she doesn’t get to say ‘hi’ to you.”  
  
Santana grins and waves at the house, seeing the curtain pull aside and a tiny hand wave back. “Did you want to do anything special?”  
  
“I don’t want to go bowling, if that’s what you’re asking.” Brittany starts walking in the direction of the Patterson’s and Santana follows. “We can go to the park, if you want. Or the movies.” The blonde ducks under the top line of the fence with practiced ease. It must show on Santana’s face because Brittany smiles. “I’ve been using it as a shortcut to get Kathryn to school quicker. She thinks it’s like a secret.”  
  
Santana leans up on her tiptoes and whispers, “That’s because it is.”  
  
Brittany grins wider. “Our secret.”  
  
“Yours and mine and Kathryn’s and everybody else’s in the neighborhood,” Santana agrees, smirking.  
  
Brittany nudges her in the shoulder. “I like ‘ours’ better.”  
  
“Ours it is.”  
  
Brittany makes her feel like she’s not herself; like she can smile and be goofy and it’s okay, because Brittany smiles wider every time she doesn’t something that she wouldn’t normally do and that’s enough reason for her to do it again. Brittany has some pull over her, one she can’t explain and one she doesn’t want to figure out.  
  
It’s like a magic trick: if you know how it’s done, it loses its appeal.  
  
“A movie sounds like a good idea,” she says as they cross the street to the park. “We could sneak into a rated R movie, if you want.”  
  
Brittany shakes her head. “Those are the ones with the guns and the violence, right?”  
  
Santana smiles. “Hell yeah.”  
  
“Then no,” Brittany says firmly. “No violence.” She thinks she hears Brittany say “ _you see enough for that_  under her breath, but she can’t be one hundred percent sure so she doesn’t say anything about it.  
  
“There’s a Pixar movie out,” she says slowly, hoping she’s right. There’s  _always_  a Pixar movie out.  
  
Brittany smiles and swings their hands. “I like Pixar movies. The animations are so cool.”  
  
They walk in silence the rest of the way, their hands swaying back and forth lightly. At the entrance to the movies, Brittany reaches for her pocket but Santana stops her gently. “Let me?” she asks, bracing herself to be denied. This time, Brittany smiles and squeezes Santana’s hand.  
  
“If you want to,” Brittany says.  
  
Santana grins and reaches for her wallet. “I do.” She passes the kid behind the window a twenty and takes their tickets and her change, stuffing the bills into her pocket. The guy in the uniform rips her ticket stub and they find a seat in the middle.  
  
On one hand, Santana is a little disappointed, because these aren’t the make-out seats in the back, but on other hand, Brittany doesn’t let go of her hand when they sit down. She even leans over the short armrest and laces her arm around Santana’s, pulling them closer together.  
  
She doesn’t pay attention to one minute of the movie. She can hear the soundtrack – something bubbly and upbeat the way cartoon movies usually are – and she’s aware of the way the colors on the screen change, but Santana is too busy watching her hand intertwined with Brittany’s, or the way Brittany’s face changes as the scenes on the screen do. When the lights go up, she’s not ready for it and she has to squint, but Brittany leads her out of the theater and into the sunlight.  
  
“Did you like it?” Brittany asks excitedly. “I really liked it.’  
  
“It was great,” she says. “I really liked that one part.”  
  
“When he found his way home?” Brittany jumps a little. “That was my favorite part too.”  
  
They’re on the middle of the street in broad daylight, but Santana is suddenly filled with the need to tug Brittany closer. The smile on Brittany’s face makes her feel like she can, if she wants to, and so she pulls a little until Brittany stops bouncing and keeps pulling until they’re standing close enough that Brittany’s thighs brush against her own. “Hi,” she murmurs.  
  
Brittany smiles softly. “Hi back.”  
  
Santana worries her bottom lip between her teeth, nervous and teetering on a fine line. She can either faceplant or succeed and it all depends on what Brittany says next.  
  
“Are you going to stop me?”  
  
“What are you going to do?” Brittany whispers back.  
  
She deflates a little, her body sagging. She moves to step away, but Brittany’s free hand is hooking through her belt loop and pulling her back as she shakes her head. “I was kidding,” Brittany says. “Just kidding?”  
  
“So I can…?”  
  
Brittany nods, her eyes darker than they usually are. “If you want to.”  
  
Santana smiles. “I do,” she says again.  
  
Then she’s lifting up on the balls of her feet, her free hand guiding Brittany’s head down to meet her halfway and her mouth brushes against Brittany’s almost like they don’t touch at all. She pulls away and grins when Brittany follows, pressing their mouths together. The smile fades as Brittany kisses her bottom lip, her nose nudging Santana’s. Her hand tightens around the back of Brittany’s neck as she opens her mouth and flicks her tongue cautiously against Brittany’s lip, asking for permission. Brittany grants it, parting her lips and letting Santana dip in, tracing the contours of her mouth.  
  
Brittany breaks the kiss, leaning her forehead against Santana’s, breathing a little unevenly. Santana smiles and presses another lingering kiss up.  
  
“Hi,” Brittany whispers.  
  
“Hey,” Santana whispers back, running hand around the front of Brittany’s neck, tracing the pulse point on her neck. “Was that okay?”  
  
“Well, I don’t know,” Brittany says, her voice dark and serious. “Are you going to do it again?”  
  
Her heart catches her in her throat and she nods shakily.  
  
Brittany smiles lazily. “That was more than okay, then.”  
  
Santana lets out a sigh of relief, shaking her head. “Jesus,” she breathes out. “You scared me.”  
  
“I didn’t know you got scared.” Brittany ducks her head and kisses the corner of Santana’s mouth, but that’s not enough for Santana so she turns her head and kisses Brittany again, her movements more fluid as she parts Brittany’s lips and kisses her harder.  
  
Someone honks a horn and Santana is broken from the trance she’s fallen under, her head turning and her glare cutting through the driver. There’s a bloom of satisfaction as he scowls back and drives away that spreads as Brittany leans against her temple, lips brushing against Santana’s jawbone.  
  
“I get scared,” she admits, flashing to Shelby leaning across the table without a care in the world, offering her the reins to something Santana doesn’t want. Her eyes trace the line of Brittany’s face and she tries to imagine what Brittany would look like if her eyes were hardened the way Shelby and Puck and Schuester’s are, or what it would look like it Brittany stopped smiling as much as she does. “More often than I should,” she admits.  
  
Brittany’s free hand untangles from Santana’s belt and they start walking down the street slowly, their hands swinging again. After a few minutes, Brittany tugs them back into the alley and stops her, letting go of her hand to brush the hair out of Santana’s eyes, lingering on her cheeks. “I heard about your friend,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”  
  
Her eyes burn again. “Is that why-”  
  
“No,” Brittany says firmly. She leans in. “I’ve wanted you to do that for a while. It has nothing to do with Je-”  
  
“Okay, okay,” Santana interrupts, not wanting to hear his name. “It’s okay.”  
  
“It’s not, Santana. He-he’s…”  
  
Santana shakes her head. “I know what he is,” she murmurs. “How did you find out?”  
  
Brittany’s finger trails across her cheek and tucks a strand of hair behind Santana’s ear. “Finn told me. He said it’s all over the neighborhood.”  
  
 _Great,_  Santana thinks.  _If it’s all over the neighborhood, then maybe Shelby’s desire to use me as the newest rising star is going around too._  She waits a second, but Brittany doesn’t say anything more about it and Santana switches gears again, because she doesn’t want to talk to Brittany about  _him_  and she doesn’t think about  _him_  and she’d really rather just be kissing Brittany.  
  
“Can I come over?”  
  
Brittany raises an eyebrow and smiles. “My aunt’s home.”  
  
Santana groans. “Fine,” she compromises. “I’ll just kiss you here.”  
  
She slides her hands around Brittany’s waist, settling them on the small of Brittany’s back. The blonde steps in closer to her. Brittany’s body is warm and Santana feels like she’s humming and lighting up, set to go off as Brittany’s tongue flicks against the roof of her mouth. She bites back the groan building in her throat and slips her hands up under the back of Brittany’s shirt instead, breaking the kiss and nipping down the pale skin. Brittany’s head tips back as Santana finds a spot under her jaw.  
  
The hands on her cheeks push her back gently. “Santana,” Brittany pants. “It’s getting late. I promised I’d only be gone a couple of hours.”  
  
Santana takes a deep breath and tries to calm her racing heart. “Okay,” she murmurs. “Come on,” she urges, lacing their fingers together again, leaping back through the hole in the fence, coming out onto the sidewalk across from Brittany’s house. They cross and Brittany starts up her stairs, looking back when Santana doesn’t follow.  
  
“You’re not coming in?”  
  
Santana shakes her head. “I should head home too.”  
  
Brittany stares at her with a question in her eyes that she doesn’t ask out loud. She nods and comes back down the stairs, looping her arms around Santana’s neck and kissing her lightly. “Call me this time?”  
  
“I’ll stop by,” she promises. “Tomorrow. Hey.” She perks up. “You can come on my route with me if you want.”  
  
Brittany smiles in a way that says  _no_ , without the blonde having to actually say it. “Maybe. We’ll see.”  
  
Santana rises on her toes and kisses Brittany again, pulling back with a grin. She looks over the blonde’s shoulder and waves at the window, snickering when a little hand waves back at her. She watches Brittany go inside and waits until she hears the door click before ambling back down the street, her hands in her pockets and her shoulders held high.  
  
She kissed Brittany.  _No,_  she reminds herself.  _I made out with Brittany_.  
  
For a moment, she’s just a teenager and the weight of the world – of Jesse and Shelby’s words and her mother’s blank stare – is lifted off her shoulders.  
  
\---  
  
Santana barely has time to open the door before Hudson muscles his way through, sending her sprawling back into the front hall. She lands on her elbows again, and even though the cuts from being tossed by Karfosky have healed over, she feels the skin tear easily. He follows, standing over her, his body shaking in rage, his face red. Santana flinches when he bends down. She’s sure he’s either going to punch her or grab her by the collar and hoist her into the air. He forms a fist and lets it go, panting.  
  
“You’re bad news,” he growls. “I always knew you were bad news. And now  _this_?”  
  
She’d defend herself, but she’s too shaken up by the sight if Finn Hudson in her face, pure hatred in his eyes; she’s too sure that she deserves whatever rage is being directed at her, even if she’s not sure what he’s upset about. “Wh-what?”  
  
His fist clenches again. “Don’t play stupid with me, Lopez. I’m fucking better at it than you are.”  
  
Santana scrambles back across the hardwood floor, looking for an out. The first thing Jesse had taught her about fighting –  _the rest of it came naturally_ , he told her – was one of the most important things:  _Always know your exits_. Her house has one door, the front, and she’d never make it by Hudson. She could try going through the living room, cutting in a circle and breaking for door. If she was anyone but Santana Lopez, she’d use her mother as an exit, but Hudson is hollering at her and Grace Lopez hasn’t bothered to come and see what’s going on.  
  
“You may be trash,” Hudson continues, “but she’s not. She has friends and a family that  _loves_  her. She’s so much better than you.”  
  
She pushes to her feet, suddenly just as angry as it clicks in her head. Hudson has come into  _her_  home, has invaded  _her_  space, to yell at her about  _Brittany_. “Who the hell do you think you are?”  
  
“Who the hell do you think  _you_  are?” he bellows. “You’re going to drag her into this life? She’s better than that!”  
  
Santana pushes Hudson back, her hand against his chest. “Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I want better for her?”  
  
“No, you don’t. You want what’s best for  _you_. You want whatever gets you on top, no matter who you have to step on to get there.” He takes a step forward, forcing her back two steps. “And now that Jesse is out of your way…”  
  
Santana doesn’t let him finish. She screams, one long loud scream that cuts through the silence of her house and launches herself at him, fists raised. Her left connects with his jaw, and her right finds the soft spot of his stomach. When he doubles over, she brings her left back across his jaw.  _Fuck the rules_ , the voice in her head shouts.  _Fuck the rules and Shelby and fuck Hudson and his stupid untouchable status_. She punches again and again and again and the cuts on her hand opens just like her elbows. She’s not sure if she’s bleeding more than Hudson is, but he can’t come in here, he can’t come into her house and talk about Jesse like he  _knew_  him.  
  
“Don’t you fucking talk about him,” she grinds out, each word punctuated by her fist.  
  
Large hands wrap around her fists, slowing them down, and she struggles against Hudson’s grip. There’s that burn in her eyes and she wants to scream again but her throat closes and nothing comes out. Her arms feel heavy – heavy with the hurt and the confusion and the tears she hasn’t cried since Jesse. He may have been Berry’s boyfriend, but he was  _her_  first friend. It might have been for the wrong reason, but he was the first person in her life that seemed to care if she got up in the morning and made it through each day. He was  _hers_  and now he’s dead and Hudson didn’t know him. Hudson didn’t know anything about him.  
  
She pushes away when she feels Hudson try to pull her closer. “No,” she growls. “Don’t touch me. You don’t care. You don’t know him.”  
  
“You’re not the only one hurting,” he says gently.  
  
Santana picks up a frame on the table by the door – the sample picture still inside – and throws it against the wall. Broken glass scatters across the hall, glittering. “None of you know him.”  
  
Hudson takes a small step forward. “Rachel knew him.”  
  
She laughs, but it’s a hollow sound. “She’s infatuated with him. She doesn’t know him.  _I_ I know him. He’s  _mine_.”  
  
He takes another step closer, reaching out slowly, but she smacks away his hand. “And you come in here,” she says, her voice cracking. “And you say his name like you’d even spend five minutes alone with him. You don’t know him. You don’t get to say his name.”  
  
Hudson stills and his arms fall to his side.  
  
“You don’t know him,” she says again, wiping her palm against her cheek. “You don’t know him.” Her heart leaps into her throat and a sense of dread sweeps through her. She’s suddenly cold and shaking and her voice is a whisper when she says, “You  _didn’t_  know him.  
  
Past tense. Jesse is past tense now – gone and never coming back. No more rides from school; no more late Taco Bell runs; no more sleeping on Jesse’s couch because she doesn’t want to go home; no more cheesy showtunes; no more Jesse. He’s gone.  _Hudson doesn’t know him_  is wrong; Hudson  _didn’t_  know him.  
  
Jesse will never meet Brittany or explain the big words in the encyclopedia to her again.  
  
Nobody will know Jesse; nobody  _knew_  him.   
  
“Lopez,” Hudson says softly, his large hand resting on her shoulder. His hand is warm and so big that it makes her feel like she’s suffocating at the same time. It makes her feel like she’s standing on solid ground. She sucks in a shaky breath and wants to shrug off Hudson’s hand, but she’s too tired, too heavy.   
  
“You didn’t know him,” she says again. “He was…”  
  
“It’s okay,” Hudson whispers. “Lopez, it’s okay.”  
  
He sounds like he’s giving her permission. To do what, Santana isn’t sure. To cry? To mourn Jesse? To be upset? To fall apart? It doesn’t matter, because whether he’s giving her permission or not, she’s falling to her knees in the glass, his other hand catching her around the waist stopping her from landing directly in the shards.  
  
“It’s  _not_  okay,” she cries. “It’s not okay.”  
  
He slides down with her and wraps his other arm around her. “It’s not your fault.”  
  
She knows that. She knows there’s no way that this is her fault but it doesn’t hurt any less. It’s not her fault but that doesn’t mean that Jesse didn’t die; it doesn’t mean she hasn’t admitted it out loud until now. It just means that Jesse is dead and she’s alone again.  
  
People always leave her. Her dad, her mom and now Jesse. The people who mean the most to her always leave and she knows it’s not her fault, but it doesn’t make it any better.  
  
“It’s not your fault,” he says again.  
  
Her shoulders slump and her head drops against his shoulder. If she closes her eyes, he smells a little like Jesse used to smell when he’d pick her up, driving with the windows down. It’s comforting and familiar and she sucks in a deep breath, holding onto it.  
  
After a few minutes, she stands on shaky legs and walks into the kitchen, coming back with two sodas in her hand. She slides down the wall again, next to Hudson this time, instead of halfway in his lap, and hands him a cold can. They crack them at the same time and she sees Hudson smirk out of the corner of her eye.  
  
“How did you find out?” she asks after she swallows half the can.  
  
Hudson shrugs. “You hear things, around the neighborhood. And Rachel told me,” he admits.  
  
She rolls the can between her hands. “Do you think she knows?” She turns when Hudson doesn’t answer her right away and the look on his face says everything. “Great,” she murmurs. He waits patiently for her to say something else, but Santana isn’t sure what else to say so she leans a little into his side. “I was serious, you know.”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“About not wanting her involved. I know what your life turns into when you work for Shelby. She’s… You said it. She’s too good for it.”  
  
Hudson nods slowly. “She is.”  
  
She notices that Hudson doesn’t say that Santana is too. No one has ever said that Santana is too good for this and she’s accepted it her entire life. She smiles to herself and tips her soda against his. “To the good ones,” she says, Jesse and Brittany and her mom flashing on the inside of her eyelids. She heard it in a movie once.  
  
“To the good ones,” Hudson echoes.  
  
They sit in silence for a little while longer, and Santana tries to process how she ended up drinking soda on the floor of her front hall with Finn Hudson, but she’s never been good at ‘processing’ and her head is pounding anyway so she gives up and takes another sip of her drink.  
  
She’s tired, but it’s a different kind of tired than it has been lately; it’s more of an “ _I just cried and cried and now I can finally breathe again_ ” tired.  
  
“You’re not so bad,” she murmurs.  
  
Hudson perks up. “Huh?”  
  
“What’re you, deaf?” she asks quietly before clearing her throat. “I said, you’re not so terrible.”  
  
“Well, I know that,” Hudson says, grinning widely, the same way he grins in the halls at school and at Quinn every time she smiles back at him. “I’ve been waiting for you to figure it out since 3rd grade.”  
  
Santana scoffs. “Christ, Hudson.”  
  
He ducks his head sheepishly. “I’ sorry. For being a jerk to you, though.” He’s so goddamn genuine Santana wants to gag or roll her eyes or  _something_  but she settles for shaking her head and punching him lightly in the shoulder. That’s her apology; he gets it. She won’t say  _”I’m sorry”_  back, but a small smile and a punch of affection is as close as she’ll get to the two words. It’s enough for him. Hudson has always been easy that way.  
  
“You like Quinn?”  
  
This time he ducks his head and his cheeks flush. “A lot,” he mumbles. “Do you think she… I mean, do you think she might…”  
  
“Yeah,” Santana breathes out. “Don’t ask me why,” she kids, “but yeah. I think she does.”  
  
Hudson lets out a sigh of relief that Santana feels throughout her body. “Good.”  
  
“Great,” she agrees. “Don’t fuck it up,” she adds quickly.  
  
Hudson pauses and seems to think about it, then taps his can against hers and finishes it off in one swallow. He tries to crush it against his forehead but winces and twists it in his hands instead. Lifting off the floor, he reaches down and offers her his hand.  
  
Santana Lopez hasn’t learned how to overcome her pride yet, but Jesse had given her a cookie fortune once that told her to walk her path wisely, because each step was a step in a certain direction and she had the power to choose whether it was the right path or the wrong path.  
  
It didn’t make sense then – it doesn’t really make sense now, either – but it sounds  _smart_  and she figures she better follow the paper’s advice.  
  
She takes Hudson’s hand and stands, brushing glass of her jeans and surveys the damage she did.  
  
“I’ll help,” she hears over her shoulder. “Don’t worry.”  
  
She worries, though. Brittany knows now – about Jesse and about Shelby’s offer - and there’s nothing good that can come of it.  
  
Nothing good at all.  
  
\---  
  
She shows up at Brittany’s door because she said she would, but she’s more nervous than she’s ever been. Her hair is all over the place and she managed to grab the one t-shirt that looks like a cheese grater with all the holes it has and her jeans are tearing at the bottom. Her hands are clammy and she forces them into her pocket to stop them from shaking the way they have been.  
  
Santana knows Brittany is home alone; Kathryn and Brittany’s aunt go somewhere every Monday and they’re gone for a bit.  
  
Brittany opens the door and smiles at her and it catches Santana off guard. She’s expecting to be smacked across the face, or told to go home, but Brittany smiles at her and fists her t-shirt, pulling her across the threshold. “Hey,” she murmurs, kissing Santana slowly.  
  
Her hands curl around Brittany’s hips as she kisses back. She breaks away when she can’t breathe and buries her face in Brittany’s neck, taking in deep breaths. “Hi,” she finally says. She presses one kiss to Brittany’s collar bone and leans back, searching Brittany’s face. “That was a nice way to say hello.”  
  
“I know it is,” Brittany says, leaning in again.  
  
She feels the door against her back as Brittany’s hands wind in her hair and even though she can feel the doorknob pressing against the bottom of her spine, Brittany’s tongue sweeps into her mouth and the irritation fades. Her body comes to life and her hands slide up under Brittany’s shirt, spanning across smooth skin.   
  
Brittany pulls away this time, peppering Santana’s face with small kisses until Santana laughs a little and squirms away. “Tickles,” she breathes out.  
  
“I like kissing,” Brittany murmurs back. “I like kissing you.” She slowly unwinds her fingers from Santana’s hair, smoothing down the hair at her temple. “Hey, you want to watch a movie?”  
  
Santana pauses a second. She  _should_  talk, but Brittany is wearing shorts and a t-shirt and no socks and a movie means they’ll inevitably end up making out – Hudson and Quinn always do, Quinn says – and it’s really hard to want to use her mouth for words when she could use it to trace a line from the tip of Brittany’s jaw to the bottom of her collarbone. So she grins and nods and walks Brittany backwards into the living room, sitting down while the blonde sets up the player.  
  
“What do you want to watch?”  
  
“Whatever you want,” Santana offers, toeing off her shoes. She sits in the corner again, feet stretched up on the coffee table. Brittany slides in a silver disc and sit down. Instead of curling up in the other corner, she sits next to Santana, their thighs pressed together. Santana’s arm winds around Brittany’s shoulders and they’re fifteen minutes into the movie before she turns and shakes her head. “Sitting like this feels so weird,” she admits.  
  
Brittany sighs in relief. “Oh God, I know.”  
  
Long fingers wind around her wrists and pull her forward until she’s lying down facing Brittany, her arms around Brittany’s waist to stop her from falling off the couch. Over the top of Brittany’s head she can see a little of the movie but before she can focus on it Brittany is tipping her head up and catching Santana’s bottom lip, sucking lightly. Santana doesn’t hold back her groan this time and lets her hands roam across Brittany’s back, stopping at her bra strap. Brittany kisses her hard, her bare legs tangling in Santana’s jean-clad legs. This is  _so_  much better than watching the movie.  
  
She nudges Brittany’s head back and sucks on Brittany’s pulse point, scraping her teeth against the sensitive flesh and soothing it with her tongue. Brittany whimpers and her hips press against Santana’s. A rush of fire hits Santana in the gut and her hips cant up against Brittany’s again, biting down on the skin between Brittany’s neck and her shoulder.  
  
“Slow down,” Brittany whispers as her hips rock slowly back and forth against Santana. “We have to… slow down.”  
  
Santana nods and takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Her hand find Brittany’s hipbones and her thumbs move in a circle on the smooth skin, holding them in place. “Sorry.”  
  
Brittany looks at her, confused. “What’re you sorry for? I was having fun,” she says, winking.  
  
She laughs and pulls Brittany forward so their legs wind closer together. “Fun, huh?” She brushes her lips against Brittany’s cheek, feeling like she’s floating above the ground and Brittany is tethering her to the ground.  
  
“You’re very fun to kiss,” Brittany says seriously. “You might be my favorite person to kiss.”  
  
Santana can’t help but tense up and Brittany, this close to her, with her pale hands raking through Santana’s hair, feels it. “Hey,” Brittany starts.  
  
“Do you kiss a lot of people,” she asks quietly, not meeting Brittany’s eyes. She hates the feeling of jealously that rages inside of her at the thought of Brittany kissing someone other than her. It’s unfamiliar and it  _hurts_  the space between her ribs.  
  
Brittany’s hand slides out of her hand and pulls Santana’s chin down. “Not at the same time. If I’m kissing you, I’m not kissing anyone else,” she clarifies. “I mean, I haven’t kissed anyone else in a while. I don’t think,” she whispers, hovering closer, “that I want to kiss anyone else for a while.”  
  
The jealously burns off and she’s left with a warm glow that spreads throughout her entire body. “I’m not kissing anyone else,” she feels the need to say. “I don’t-”  
  
Brittany giggles. “I get it,” she says mercifully. “You’re only going to kiss me.”  
  
It sounds more like Brittany is making a statement, like it’s a command, rather than verbalizing what Santana wanted to say, but she likes the way it sounds. She likes the hard edge of Brittany’s tone of voice, how it sounds just a little possessive.  
  
For a moment, she looks at Brittany wrapped around her and wonders what it would be like if she used that voice as she knocked on doors. She sees what Shelby sees: a sweet-looking girl with a blindingly genuine smile. It’s such a classic bait routine: the pretty girl with a face of an angel taking your money before you even see it. She can see the appeal of the situation. Brittany is competent and a people person; she could probably rob the Pillsbury lady, or anyone else, for that matter, blind. She blinks hard but the image is burned into her mind: Brittany sitting in the smoky main room of headquarters, arguing over who gets the leftover routes with Schuester.  
  
“Hey,” Brittany says, shaking her out of her head. “What’s going on?”  
  
“I,” Santana starts, pausing. “Nothing. You’re gorgeous, did you know that?”  
  
Brittany’s nose crinkles and it freaks Santana out a little that she knows that Santana wasn’t going to say that – she wonders how much Brittany can read into her and then she stops wondering because it churns her stomach. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she says after a minute, grinning.  
  
Santana rolls and slides against the back of the couch, a knee on either side of Brittany’s hips, her hands pressed into the couch above Brittany’s head. “You’re better,” she says, bumping her nose against Brittany’s, kissing her softly. She pulls away when Brittany tries to kiss her deeper and laughs when the blonde tries to follow her. She leans back down again, feeling her eyes sting. “You’re better.”  
  
She doesn’t mean  _”better-looking”_  but the way Brittany nods and wraps her arms around Santana’s waist and pulls her down makes Santana thinks Brittany understand anyway.  
  
“You’re not so bad yourself,” Brittany whispers.   
  
The words sink into Santana’s skin and they burn. Brittany doesn’t know; she’s wrong. Santana is bad. Hudson might not have meant to say it, but she knows what she is: bad news. It’s like everything she touches crumbles down around her. And now she’s here, her hands brushing across Brittany’s forehead and down her arms and soon enough, Brittany will crumble too. Her hands press a little harder, tracing the dip of Brittany’s mouth and the ledge of her chin. Brittany will crumble too, shatter into pieces, because Santana is bad news. What’s worse is that she knows. She knows she’s bad news and she knows that Brittany is a  _good_  person and she knows that it’s like baking soda and vinegar. They don’t mix. They never will without something else exploding.  
  
She curls her lips into a smirk. “Baby,” she husks against Brittany’s ear, “You have no idea how bad I am.”  
  
Brittany’s eyes light up like Santana just won a jackpot. “We could find out,” she whispers back, her hand sliding down Santana’s back, slipping into Santana’s back pocket.  
  
Santana laughs and blushes. “I thought you said we needed to slow down.”  
  
“You called me ‘baby’,” Brittany says.  
  
“That’s all it takes, huh?” Santana’s hips press down. “You’re kind of easy, you know that?”  
  
Brittany raises an eyebrow and gives her an  _“oh, really?”_  look as she takes her hand out of Santana’s pocket. The brunette whimpers quietly and her hips jerk again. “Brittany,” she warns, low in the back of her throat.  
  
“What?” Brittany asks, her voice a whisper as she lifts one leg up, planting her foot on the couch. Santana feels it against her thigh and groans, her head dropping to Brittany’s neck.  
  
She opens her mouth to tell Brittany that she either needs to knock it off or Santana at least touch her boobs, but the door slams open and she doesn’t get a chance to say anything before Kathryn stomps through the front hall and into the kitchen, barely sparing them a glance. Brittany’s aunt follows, stopping in front of the entrance to the living room.  
  
“Kathryn,” the older woman sighs. She shakes her head and turns to the living room. Santana freezes, looking over her shoulder at the woman but Brittany smiles and sits up, her arms coming around Santana’s waist, holding her steady in her lap instead of letting her go. “Hey, Tante.”  
  
“Girls,” the older woman says, sinking down into the armchair. “What have you two been up to?”  
  
Santana blushes but Brittany tilts her head to the left towards the television. “Watching a movie.”  
  
The older woman doesn’t bat an eye at Santana’s messy hair or the flush on Brittany’s face. “I’ve seen this one. It’s good.” She drops her forehead against her hand. “I’m sorry,” she says suddenly, rising. “I forgot your name.”  
  
“Santana, ma’am,” she says, clearing her throat. “Santana Lopez.”  
  
Brittany’s aunt holds out her hand. “I’m Madeline Janssen. It’s nice to meet you.”  
  
Santana takes her hand cautiously, feeling her face grow hot. “It’s nice to meet you too,” she says sheepishly. She tries to slide off Brittany’s lap but the blonde holds her tighter and frowns at her. “Babe,” she murmurs. “Let me go.”  
  
“No,” Brittany whispers back, titling her head towards the kitchen. “Is she okay?”  
  
Madeline shrugs. “She’s always upset when she gets back out of there. I don’t think he’s very helpful.”  
  
“I thought he was the best,” Brittany says, frowning.  
  
Madeline shrugs again. “That’s what his nameplate says.” She stands and smiles – it looks like Brittany’s, just a little bit wider in one corner. “Anyway, I’m going to go see what she’s doing. Is it okay if I send her in here?” The older woman glances between them with a faint smirk.  
  
Santana nods her head furiously and Brittany smiles. “She can watch the movie with us,” Brittany offers. The blonde turns to Santana. “Though, she might steal you away. She’s kind of in awe of you.”  
  
Brittany loosens her grip around Santana’s waist and she slips off Brittany’s lap, keeping her hand on Brittany’s knee as she settles into the couch. “That’s okay with me.” Madeline leaves in search of Kathryn and Brittany turns, stretching her legs out to the coffee table. Santana leans over and kisses the corner of her mouth. “Your aunt is…”  
  
“Okay with who I am,” Brittany says sternly. “She’s okay with who you are too.”  
  
Santana wonders if Madeline Janssen knew who she really was, if she’d be okay with her, but Kathryn is flying into the room before she can think about it too much, launching herself into Santana’s lap and curling up against her. Brittany’s hand finds hers and their fingers lace together as Brittany drops her head to Santana’s shoulder.  
  
The movie plays, but Santana doesn’t pay too much attention, too busy formulating a plan on what to do now.


	9. Part 9

“I don’t understand why we need to talk  _here_ ,” Quinn mutters, glancing around the school cafeteria. It’s not where they usually have lunch, sure, but at least if they’re talking and so is everyone else, there’s less of chance that she’ll be overheard. Santana looks up from her sandwich and frowns.  
  
“You’re my best friend. I need your help.”  
  
It might be the first time she’s ever said those words, to anyone. Quinn knows it too. Her jaw drops a little bit and her eyes widen some, but she swallows and nods her head slowly.  
  
“What do you need, then?”  
  
She tells Quinn everything – Shelby ordering the hit on Jesse; the way Jesse had looked at her when he was behind the school, one eye swollen shut, the other just sad; the way Shelby said everything so calmly; how Santana is expected to step up and take over for Jesse; Shelby demanding Brittany take over for Santana. By the time she’s done, Quinn is red in the face, gripping the edge of the table. Her best friend wasn’t always so fond of Jesse, but he was never mean to Quinn and the two of them used each other to keep Santana from straying too far away.  
  
“What do you need from me,” Quinn repeats.  
  
Santana sighs and drops her head into her hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Quinn. Shelby has reach. She has power. She-she-”  
  
“She can do damage, Santana. Serious damage.”  
  
“Don’t you think I know that?” she growls. She slams her fists on the lunch table. “Godammit, Quinn. I know.”  
  
Quinn frowns. “Don’t get pissed at me. This isn’t my fault.”  
  
Santana sighs. “It’s my fault. I should have stayed away from her. I should have just demanded the money and stayed away from her.”  
  
“Not to be a bitch,” Quinn says lightly. “But why didn’t you?”  
  
She takes a bite of her sandwich and chews it half-heartedly, swallowing hard to get it down her throat. “I don’t know,” she says.  
  
“Bullshit.”  
  
“Quinn, come on,” Santana whines. But Quinn puts on her  _“I’m the head bitch in charge here and you better answer me when I ask you a question”_  face and crosses her arms over her chest. Santana sighs again and shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she repeats. “There’s just…  _something_  about her. At first I thought it was because she’s new, but… there’s something else. She makes me feel good, Quinn. Really good.” She sees Quinn wiggle her eyebrows suggestively and fakes a punch in the blonde’s direction. “Shut up, perv. Not like that.”  
  
“So you two haven’t,” Quinn says slowly.  
  
Santana flushes. “Don’t be an idiot. No. She… she smiles at me.” Santana groans. “I feel stupid talking about it. It’s whatever. I like her. I lo-like her a lot. I don’t want her involved in this shit.”  
  
Quinn nod seriously. “Okay, Santana.”  
  
“Okay?”  
  
Quinn reaches across the table and touches her hand, pulling it away just as quickly, because they’re in the middle of the lunchroom in the middle of the day and everyone is around them – anyone could be watching. “Okay,” she says quietly. “But we’re going to need a hell of an idea. And you’re going to need to be prepared to lose.”  
  
“I don’t lose,” Santana growls. “I  _won’t_  lose. I just need to figure out how to get her away from this.”  
  
“The only way you’re going to do that is to get her to leave,” Quinn mutters.  
  
Santana’s head snaps up. “What did you say?”  
  
Quinn puts her hands up in surrender. “I was kidding.”  
  
“No,” Santana insists. “What did you say?”  
  
“I said that the only way you’re going to get anyone away from Shelby’s reach is to leave.”  
  
Santana slaps the table with the flat of her palm, grinning. “That’s  _it_! I’ll get her to go.”  
  
Quinn shakes her head. “Okay, first of all, she just got here. They just moved in. They’re not going to pack up and take off right now, because that’s just stupid. Second of all, if she goes, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of you actually being with her?” Santana stares at her blankly. “If she goes, she can’t be with you,” Quinn clarifies.  
  
Santana deflates. “Shit,” she murmurs. “I didn’t think of that.”  
  
Someone clears their throat behind them and Santana whips around, her hand on her pocket where Jesse’s knife is hidden away. She’d taken it from his car that afternoon she cleaned him up and had kept it by accident. She had taken to carrying it on the mornings it’s just a little harder to get out of bed. Berry is standing there, her books falling out of her hands and her sweater a little disheveled.  
  
“My intention wasn’t to frighten you,” Berry says quietly. “I only wanted to offer my assistance.”  
  
“Can’t you just say you weren’t eavesdropping and you want to help, like a normal person?”  
  
Berry nods. “Jesse was- he was…” She trails off and takes a deep breath that seems to shake her entire body. “I’ve been told to ‘relax’,” Berry says after a moment. “It’s harder than I imagined it would be.”  
  
“Berry,” she sighs. “Are you going to sit down or are you going to stand there and draw attention to me?” She scans the lunchroom and sees Puck, Chang, Rutherford, Tina Cohen-Chang and Karofsky scattered throughout the cafeteria, but none of them have caught sight of Berry standing up in a room full of people sitting down.  _Maybe it’s because she’s so short_  Santana rationalizes, rolling her eyes and grabbing the hem of Berry’s sweater, pulling her towards the table. “Just sit down,” she mutters.  
  
“I couldn’t help but tune into your conversation,” Berry says quietly.  
  
“You were spying on us,” Quinn says. “Don’t try to pretend like you were just walking by. You’ve been standing there since Santana threw her stale Doritos at the Israel kid.”  
  
Santana stares at Berry, not bothering to pretend like she’s not. Berry looks like a truck ran her over and backed up and did it again a few times, just for fun: her eyes are bloodshot and her sweater is wrinkled more than the long-sleeve Santana is wearing, which is saying something; something not nice. It occurs to her that if she were anyone other than Santana Lopez, maybe this is what she would look like if she mourned Jesse. Maybe she’d look like she hasn’t slept in days, or maybe she’d be red around the eyes like she’s crying from the moment she wakes up to the moments she went to sleep.   
  
“My mother ordered a hit on my boyfriend,” Berry says hoarsely. She found out we were engaged in a romantic relationship and even when I asked her not to, she requested he be killed. So,” she says, taking another deep breath. “I want to help you.”  
  
“To get back at Shelby.”  
  
“To get back at my mother,” Berry confirms.  
  
Santana rocks back. “You’re doing this for yourself.”  
  
“I’m doing this because I loved him, Santana. Do you understand what that feels like? I loved him and she took him away. She just  _ripped_  him from my life like he was a pesky band aid that needed to be disposed of.” She sighs and swallows hard. “I’m doing this because I heard the way you told my mother you would never let Brittany get involved in her sordid operation. It was convincing.”  
  
Santana isn’t sure if Berry is insinuating that Santana didn’t actually mean what she said, but she decides to overlook it in favor of the look in Berry’s eye that seems to spell trouble for Shelby Corcoran, and because Quinn kicks her a little under the table. “Let’s hear your grand idea, then.”  
  
“You can both go,” Berry breathes out.  
  
Santana is quiet as she waits for the rest of the plan but Berry begins to doodle on the margin of her notebook. Apparently, that  _is_  the plan. “Are you kidding?”   
  
“You want to… pursue a relationship with her further than something just sexual, am I correct?”  
  
Quinn sighs and translates, “You want to date her, not just get in her pants, right?”  
  
“Yes,” Santana hisses. “God, who the hell do you think I am, Berry.” Quinn’s raises an eyebrow. “Oh, whatever. I want to date her. I want to buy her flowers. I want to make her smile everyday if that’s what you’re asking me.”  
  
Berry nods. “If you want that, you need to find it somewhere outside of Lima. My mother has an amazing reach in this county and if you refuse her and then proceed to date Brittany, she’s going to make your life miserable. She’ll find every available opportunity to ruin it for you. She’ll exploit every vulnerability either of you have. You’ll never be happy.”  
  
Berry is right: if Santana tries to be with Brittany after denying Shelby access to the blonde, they’ll never be able to be together without looking over their shoulders. No one says  _“no”_  to Shelby Corcoran and gets away with it; it’s common knowledge.  
  
“But if we both go…”  
  
“If you both go,” Berry continues, “then you have the chance to be  _happy_. You have a chance to experience something more than just this stupid, small town.” There’s an edge to Berry’s voice that Santana could get used to; it’s angry and just the littlest bit wounded, enough to make her sound dangerous. It’d kind of hot, if Berry wasn’t weepy.  
  
“Yes,” she breathes out. “Yes, we’ll both leave.”  
  
Quinn breaks the awed silence. “That’s not going to work.”  
  
Santana whips her head around. “Excuse me?” she grounds out. “What the fuck does that mean?”  
  
“Be realistic, Santana. You and Brittany are just going to pack up in the middle of the night and take off? What about her sister and her aunt?” Quinn looks at her pointedly. “What about  _you_? What about your mom?”  
  
“Quinn-”  
  
“What about me?” Quinn continues, her eyes flashing. “Are you just going to walk away from everything you’ve ever known? From everyone you’ve ever known?”  
  
Santana sighs. “Quinn, come on.”  
  
“Don’t ‘come on’ me, Santana. You can’t just leave.”  
  
“Why can’t I?” she challenges, even though she knows she’s wrong. Quinn has a point. Brittany won’t leave Kathryn or her aunt; Santana can’t leave her mother. If not because it’s  _wrong_ , then because they’d be the first people Shelby would go after in revenge. Still, she wants to dream, that in a perfect world, she’d be able to do something like just leave, and since her world is never going to be perfect, she decides that the plan can work, with some adjustments.  
  
“Quinn might be right,” Berry says quietly.  
  
Santana stands quickly, shaking the table. “No. We can. Her and me and Kathryn and Madeline and my mom. We can go. I have family in California, we can go there. We could go further east. My mom is an easy traveler,” she tries to joke. “And Kathryn adapts quickly, I know she does. They’re already used to moving. It’ll be easy.”  
  
In her head, it comes together seamlessly: they’ll pack everything up and go west or east, depending on their mood and they can start somewhere new.  
  
“We can do it,” she says to herself, storming through the lunchroom. Puck slides out of her way as she nears him, but she’s too preoccupied to care about the tape around his knuckles.  
  
The haze settles in her mind for the rest of the day and instead of daydreaming about riding in a cherry red Mustang with the top down, she dreams about spending a day on the beach in the afternoon. She imagines that sand would get everywhere, but she’d be okay with it. She wonders if Brittany has ever seen the ocean.   
  
Santana hasn’t, but she would bet anything that she can find a stretch of ocean the same color as Brittany’s eyes.  
  
\---  
  
She rings Brittany’s doorbell obnoxiously, holding it down until she hears noise inside and sees a shadow approach the doorway. Brittany pulls it open, running a hand through her lose hair. “What? What’s wrong.”  
  
Santana pushes across the threshold, winding her hands through Brittany’s hair. “Let’s go to California,” she says, kissing Brittany. She peppers kisses across Brittany’s face, kissing the smile that forms as her fingers slide under Brittany’s top. “Is your aunt home?”  
  
Brittany giggles as Santana’s fingers skate up her side. “She took Kathryn shopping for shoes.”  
  
Santana grins and tips Brittany’s head back, kissing her way down Brittany’s neck. She can feel Brittany’s pulse point flutter wildly under her lips and it makes her heart jump into her throat. It swells until she feels like she can’t breathe and she’s just panting against Brittany’s neck, her hands moving restlessly from Brittany’s hipbones to just under the swell of her breasts.   
  
“Let’s go to California,” she whispers again, pushing Brittany towards the living room and tipping her over the arm of the couch. She follows, one knee on either side of Brittany’s hips as her hands push up Brittany’s shirt. She kisses the skin that appears, smirking as Brittany’s stomach rises and falls rapidly as she breathes. “We could go to the ocean,” she says, pressing a kiss to the smooth skin between Brittany’s ribs, right below her chest. “We could go sailing.” She slides one hand up Brittany’s side and palms her breast, her thumb brushing over the material of her pale bra. “Or we could go skinny-dipping in the middle of the day.” She presses a lingering kiss right about Brittany’s belly button. “What do you think?”  
  
Brittany’s hip rise off the couch and her hands slide through Santana’s hair, pulling her closer. Santana mouths along Brittany’s chin and up towards Brittany’s mouth. “I like the ocean,” Brittany murmurs. “I like-like that too,” she breathes out.  
  
Santana rests her forehead against Brittany’s, looking down at her hand as if it doesn’t belong to her. It trails down in a straight line from the dip of Brittany’s throat to the top of the hemline of her shorts. It traces along that line, from one hipbone to the other, and slides back up and pushes Brittany’s shirt up, urging it over Brittany’s head. “You do?”  
  
“Yeah,” Brittany says quietly, her back arching to meet Santana’s hand as it moves down again. Her other hand slips around Brittany’s back and the next time the blonde arches up, she slides into the space between skin and the couch, finding the clasp to Brittany’s bra easily.  
  
“Is this…?”  
  
Brittany nods and Santana smirks at the sound of heavy breathing as she releases the catch, the fabric giving away. She slides on strap off Brittany’s shoulder and kisses where it had been, sliding one side off that way, following it with her mouth as she kisses her way down to the swell of Brittany’s breast. Brittany lifts her hands and Santana takes the bra and flings it across the room, grinning when Brittany scoffs at her impatience. The scoffs melts into a groan as Santana leans down, her mouth busy as her hand traces letters against Brittany’s hipbone.  
  
Her hand stops at Brittany’s waistband, toying with the string bow there, waiting. Brittany’s hips cant up and she tosses her head back and forth as Santana bites down gently. A pale hand grips Santana’s wrist. “You can,” she hears over the roar in her ears.  
  
She pulls the bow undone slowly, giving Brittany a chance to change her mind. The blonde whimpers though, wrapping one leg around Santana’s, forcing her hips down to meet Brittany’s and Santana takes that as a  _“no, I don’t want to change my mind”_  noise. The shorts loosen enough that Santana can sweep a finger down, just dipping it below the edge of Brittany underwear, feeling hot skin.  
  
“Hey,” she murmurs, lifting her head and kissing an already-marked spot on Brittany’s neck.  
  
Brittany grins at her, the motion shaky as Santana’s hand traces lines across her stomach. “Hi.”  
  
Santana stares at her and something washes over her, a calm feeling she’s not used to anymore. It starts in her fingertips and she’s worried that Brittany can feel the burn that courses through them and up her arm, but the blonde is still smiling at her. It flows through her body, down to her legs and into her toes and when she smiles, it feels natural, like it’s something she does. She hovers over Brittany and feels the urge to tell her something, anything, because the feeling in her chest aches in a good way every time she looks at Brittany.  
  
She read in a book once – something Jesse had thrown at her in a library fight and after they had gotten kicked out of the library, she’d taken it out of spite and thumbed through it – that the feeling was called “love” but Santana Lopez doesn’t do love, not anymore.  
  
Looking down at Brittany, who’s staring back at her with the bluest, most trusting eyes Santana has ever seen, Santana Lopez could be persuaded to do love maybe just one more time.  
  
Brittany lifts her head and kisses her, her hands going down Santana’s back and into her back pockets, pulling her closer. Santana feels Brittany’s hips grind up against her once, then twice and she groans into the kiss, pressing harder. She nips at Brittany’s bottom lip and Brittany’s mouth opens. Santana pushes forward, her tongue tracing the inside of Brittany’s mouth as their hips find a rhythm, moving together slowly.  
  
The hand in her pocket slides around to the front of her jeans, knuckles ghosting against her stomach as she feels the button pull loose. She breaks the contact they have, kneeling up and pushing her jeans down to her knees, wriggling them off the rest of the way. Santana tries to lean back down, but Brittany pushes her back up, tugging on her shirt. She lifts it up and over her head, tossing it in the same direction of Brittany’s bra and shirt and tries to lean back down again.  
  
Santana rests her forehead on Brittany’s as her hands glide down the smooth plane of Brittany’s stomach to the waistband of her shorts. She lingers for just a moment, but Brittany pushes her hips up into Santana’s hands and that’s enough for Santana. Brittany kicks her shorts off the rest of the way and wraps her leg around Santana’s hip, pulling her back down.  
  
She’s not sure who groans but it sets something off inside of her and she just needs to feel Brittany, to touch her and know she’s real. Her hands ghost along the swell of Brittany’s breasts, down her sides and dip under her last piece of clothing Brittany is wearing.  
  
Brittany arches into her wandering hands and Santana ducks her head, sucking on Brittany’s neck as her fingers dip and slide, finding a rhythm that matches the rise and fall of Brittany’s hips against hers. It’s nothing she’s used to, all heat and no space to move any way she already isn’t moving. Brittany gasps as she twists her fingers and nails cut into her back as Brittany’s hands slide against her skin.   
  
Brittany’s back arches up and her head presses into the couch as her mouth drops open, panting against the side of Santana’s face. She says something, but Santana can’t hear it so she pushes harder, ignoring the burn in her muscles, just hear her say it one more time.  
  
“San,” Brittany breathes out, her body contracting.  
  
It’s the best sound Santana has ever heard: her name sliding between those lips breathlessly like that. Santana wants to hear it every day for the rest of her life, if she can. She pushes in again, twisting and curling in ways that she doesn’t really understand how she knows to do. Brittany’s hips buck up again and Santana feels it low in her body, a red-hot heat simmering as she glides up and down with every thrust Brittany makes into her hand.  
  
“San, San, San,” she hears again. She feels a hand on the small of her back and then it’s pressing against her, sliding down and stopping. “I need…”  
  
She nods and takes a deep breath. “Me too,” she says quietly, stretching her neck to press a kiss to the corner of Brittany’s mouth, sighing as Brittany turns her head and kisses her back. Brittany’s fingers wander down a little more and press. Just one, but it’s enough that she gasps and kisses Brittany a little harder.  
  
Santana’s hand loses its momentum but Brittany is thrusting harder against her; twisting and curling and pushing. When Brittany bites down on her bottom lip, the blonde’s hips still. Santana feels Brittany tighten around her but keeps moving in a slow rhythm until Brittany sags back into the couch, panting, her free hand roaming across Santana’s back.  
  
Brittany looks up at her, normally clear blue eyes hazed over, and smiles lazily. “Wow,” she murmurs, craning her neck up. Santana meets her halfway, kissing her slowly, rocking her hips against Brittany’s hand. The blonde hums in the back of her throat and the fingers curl inside her. Santana breaks the kiss with a gasp as the simmering heat explodes inside of her, every nerve ending burning off as her body pushes itself. She exhales loudly and falls, crashing down onto Brittany. Brittany rolls them, turning them onto their side and Santana presses her forehead against Brittany’s chest, breathing in the smell of sweat and vanilla.  
  
A hand smoothes back her hair and tucks it behind her ear. “Hey.”  
  
She tilts her head back. “You’re amazing.”  
  
Brittany smiles sheepishly at her. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she says quietly. “That was nice.”  
  
Santana scoffs. “Nice? It was awesome.” She falters a little. “It was awesome, right?” The hand around her waist squeezes her tighter and Santana feels herself let out a sigh of relief at the silent  _“yes”_  Brittany gives her.  
  
They lie in silence for a little while and Santana presses her ear over Brittany’s heart, listening to the steady rhythm of the organ:  _beat, beat, beatbeat_. It sounds like rain coming down on the top of Jesse’s mustang in the summertime, when they would drive up to Veterans Bluff and hang out listening to music and not talking.  
  
Santana can feel herself getting tired – her eyelids feel heavy and her heart is slowing down. Brittany’s arms around her are warm and even though the air is kind of cool, she can feel each breath Brittany exhales drift across her back and it’s not so cold. She’s barely awake when Brittany shifts and Santana slides a little towards the edge of the couch. “Hey,” she hears. “Santana?”  
  
She groans a little and feels her muscles protest as she turns her head and looks up at Brittany. “Yeah?” she murmurs.  
  
Brittany shimmies down the couch until her arms are low around Santana’s waist and her forehead is pressed against Santana. “Why are we going to California?”  
  
Santana frowns for a moment until she remembers the way she came into the house, just a little desperate but completely serious. Her own words echo in her head: “ _Let’s go to California_ ” like that could solve Santana’s problem. “I thought you said you wanted to go,” she says instead of answering. There’s just a hint of accusation in her tone, but Brittany picks it up anyway.  
  
“Of course I want to go.” Brittany grins wide and Santana feels her scowl faltering without her meaning it to. “I’m just wondering why we’re going, that’s all.”  
  
Santana shrugs and leans in, kissing the underside of Brittany’s jaw.  
  
“And you kind of looked upset when…” Brittany trails off as Santana sucks lightly, skimming down the pale neck, her teeth scraping gently along the curve. “San,” Brittany breathes.  
  
It’s that noise again; the small sigh that follows after Brittany says her name like that. California slips from her thoughts again and she bites down a little harder, wanting to hear it again; wanting to hear it forever.  
  
Brittany’s hands slide up her back but they push her away a little instead of pulling her closer. “Stop,” Brittany pants. “Stop. I’m trying to talk to you.”  
  
Santana smirks at her – it’s the wrong kind of smirk. It’s the “ _I’m-the-girl-going-to-rob-you-blind-smirk_ ” not the “ _I’m-going-to-do-what-you-asked-but-my-way_ ” smirk she’s started using with Brittany. The blonde frowns and cups her cheek, her fingers pushing down on Santana’s face until Santana isn’t smirking anymore.  
  
“Santana,” Brittany says firmly.  
  
Her mother used to speak to her like that, hard edges and a “ _I’m-talking-to-you_ ” tone that Santana would be better off paying attention to. Her mother used to use that on her when she was younger, teetering on the fine line between  _acting out_  and  _juvenile delinquency_ , always reeling her back to safety. It was the voice and the tone that tied her down to reality, where she was just another kid with a deadbeat dad and a mom trying to pick up the slack. She hated that tone.  
  
She still hates that tone.  
  
“You either want to go, or you don’t,” she says hoarsely. “It doesn’t matter why.”  
  
Brittany blinks owlishly at her, her hand still warm against the side of Santana’s face. “It matters to me,” she says after a moment. “You’re upset and you won’t tell me why you want to go across the country. So it matters to me.”  
  
It’s the closest anyone has ever gotten to saying that she matters to them in a while. Santana slumps away from Brittany’s touch, defeated, and closes her eyes, suddenly ashamed that she’s even here.  _Not ashamed of what I did or who I did it with,_  she corrects herself.  _Ashamed that I’m in this position. That I’m bringing Brittany into this position._  
  
“You know what I do,” she says quietly, her eyes squeezed tight. “You know who I am.”  
  
Brittany’s forehead bumps against hers as the blonde nods. “I don’t know everything. But I know… I know enough,” she says just as softly.  _Enough to know that it’s not good,_  is unspoken.  
  
“There’s a whole hierarchy of power. There’s… this woman. She’s my boss.” Santana presses closer to the inside of the couch, to Brittany’s body. The blonde lets her slide closer and holds her tighter. “Shelby. Her name is Shelby. And Je…” Santana sucks in a deep breath. “Jesse,” she finally breathes out. “He was hers. She had plans for him, plans I didn’t even know about. He was going to take over.”  
  
She feels Brittany frown against her face. “But since he…”  
  
“It’s me,” she says breathlessly, unsure if she even says it out loud. “Shelby wants me to take his place now. She wants me to be the one.”  
  
Santana holds her breath and waits for a reaction, but Brittany’s frown stays pressed against her cheekbone and the hand on her face doesn’t pull away. She opens her eyes and peers up through her eyelashes. “Brittany…”  
  
“So you’d take over eventually,” Brittany says, her voice flat. “The neighborhood would be yours.” Santana shifts to sit up but Brittany’s arm tightens. “How far in this are you? I mean, like, how deep are you in this?”  
  
“Over my head,” she admits, her words caught in her throat.”I’m in over my head. I’ve been in over my head for so long.”  
  
Brittany takes a deep breath and rolls over so Santana is breathing heavily into her shoulder, trying to keep from sobbing; from crying like she did in her front hall with Hudson. She feels completely helpless and lost and all she wants is someone – anyone, her mother, Brittany, Quinn,  _Jesse_  - to take her hand and point her in the direction she’s supposed to be going. Brittany rolls away from her and the pale arm around her waist goes a little slack and she feels like she’s drowning. It’s cold water to the face and it stings so much she feels her eyes burn.  
  
“What does she want,” Brittany asks quietly.  
  
Santana takes a gulp of air that doesn’t make it down into her lungs. “She doesn’t-”  
  
Brittany’s head turns sharply towards hers, their eyes locking. “She wants something.”  
  
She breaks the eye contact and looks down the flat plane of Brittany’s stomach and the stretch of her legs, following the lines of her curves back up until she’s looking back into Brittany’s eyes. “You,” she says quietly. “She wants you. We’re short and she wants you to fill the empty space.”  
  
“And you want to go to California,” Brittany says. “You want to run away.”  
  
Santana nods so hard she feels her neck crack with ever shake. “We can get out of here. You and me, so far away that neither of us are in this. I’m pretty good at making quick cash. Not by bullying people out of it,” she adds quickly. “But I could waitress and you could dance, or do whatever you want and I’ve never seen the ocean. We could see the ocean.”  
  
“You and me,” Brittany repeats.  
  
She doesn’t pay attention to the way Brittany seems to stiffen, the muscles of her stomach tensing enough that her thighs tense too. She should see it, but she’s too busy imagining how she’ll pack up the few things she has in her room. Rachel and Quinn’s warnings and doubts echo in her head, but she’s thinking about finding a car that will fit everyone.  
  
“You and me and your aunt and Kathryn and my mom, yeah.” She lets her hand slide across Brittany’s stomach, not feeling the tension there. “I have some relatives who live out there. They’re my dad’s family, but… My mom’s an easy traveler,” she says. “And you guys haven’t even been here long. Not really. Leaving wouldn’t be a big deal.”  
  
“A big deal,” Brittany echoes. “This… boss of yours wants me to join her ring of illegal activities and you want me to pack up my life and run away with you to California?”  
  
When Brittany says it that way, it sounds a little harsher than Santana wants it too; a little less thought-through than when Santana imagined it.  
  
“Brittany,” she says quietly, turning over until she can see into Brittany’s eyes. “I don’t want you to get involved in it.”  
  
She sees Brittany’s jaw tighten. “So you want me to run away.”  
  
“I want you safe,” she argues. She sighs. “Brittany, I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to be who I am anymore. I want to start over. I want to start over… with you,” she says under her breath.   
  
“With me?” Brittany asks quietly, her forehead pulled together. “You want to start over with me?”  
  
Santana feels like this isn’t how you do things; there is a pattern and a rhythm to falling in love and a nice, steady, even pace that Santana is rushing through. But Santana is used to drowning, to falling too far in when she leans over the edge. She’s always been awful at keeping an even balance so when Brittany’s forehead creases that way and her eyes go wide like she doesn’t believe Santana, she slides off the edge she’s not really balancing on and nods.  
  
“With you,” she says firmly, her voice a whisper. “Yeah.”  
  
Brittany’s smile is hesitant but widens as she keeps staring at Santana’s face. “But-”  
  
“I don’t know,” she murmurs. She ducks her head, brushing her mouth against Brittany’s. “I’ve never felt like this.”  
  
“Like what?” she feels, more than hears.  
  
She skims her mouth across Brittany’s bottom lip. “Like I’m on fire and I don’t even care if I burn.”  
  
Brittany’s mouth curves up against hers and she presses down, feeling the kiss spread through her whole body as Brittany’s hands find her sides and start roaming again. Santana trails a hand down Brittany’s stomach, between her breasts and smiles when the blonde inhales quickly.  
  
“California,” Brittany says again.  
  
Santana lifts her head and nods, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “It might work,” she whispers. “We could try.”  
  
Brittany nods. “Maybe,” she says, tipping her head up to capture Santana’s bottom lip.  
  
“ _Maybe_ ” isn’t a”  _yes_ ,” but it’s close enough; after “ _San_ ” it’s the best thing she’s ever heard.  
  
\---  
  
This time when she storms Casa de Corcoran, Chang doesn’t even question her. If anything, he nudges the door a little for her and she grunts her appreciation as she kicks it the rest of the way open. It slams against the wall and swings back towards her but she pushes it again and crosses the threshold. Schuester, at the table, takes a look at her and hooks his thumb over his shoulder towards the back room and then takes off out the door past her.  
  
There’s a certain sort of comfort in the knowledge that she can make a grown man run.  
  
Shelby sees it too, leaning against the doorjamb. “You know, the last time I saw him leave that fast, Sylvester was visiting.” Santana doesn’t really care; again, Shelby sees this too. “Not that I don’t love you coming in here and slamming things,” she says, her voice taking on a hard edge. “But what do you want?”  
  
“I’m not doing it. What you want from me,” she clarifies. “You can’t have it.”  
  
“Are you really trying to tell me what I can and cannot have?” Shelby pushes off the door and steps so close Santana can feel the anger pulsing off of her. “You’re a child.”  
  
“A child you’re ‘grooming’ yourself,” Santana points out.  
  
Shelby pauses and stares at her, burning a spot in her forehead between her eyes. “You’re a brat,” she finally says.  
  
“So why the hell would you want me,” she asks, rhetorically, already turning on her heel and walking back to the door Schuester shut behind him.  
  
“Do you know the other reason Jesse brought you to me?”  
  
Santana’s hands clench at the mention of Jesse’s name. She doesn’t turn around but she stops, because she’s smart enough to realize that Shelby is holding all the cards and she’s playing them one by one, keeping Santana on a short leash.  
  
“He knew, that first time, that your mother wouldn’t be able to make those kinds of payments on a weekly basis.” Shelby scoffs. “That boy was a bleeding heart. Always helping charity cases. And you? You were his biggest charity case.”  
  
Santana steps forward. “Don’t you-”  
  
“Don’t  _you_ ,” Shelby says calmly. “He knew you could never afford it, so he brought you in, knowing I wouldn’t charge if you were working for me.”  
  
Shame colors her face and she looks down, avoiding the smirk on Shelby’s face and the smug look in her eyes.  
  
“Without me,” Shelby continues, “you’d be living on the streets. The money you make working for me gives you hot water and electricity. It puts food on your table.” The older woman takes a step closer, her hands coming down on Santana’s. They don’t feel like they’re anchoring her, the way Brittany’s hands do. They feel like weights, holding her down, pushing her through the floor. “The only reason you’re worth  _anything_  is because of me.”  
  
“I’m worth more than that,” Santana says, her teeth gritted.  
  
Shelby smiles sadly. “No, you’re not,” she says gently. “But you could be.”  
  
Santana doesn’t realize Shelby is moving her through the main room and into the back until her forehead bumps against the cool glass of the window that looks out onto the street. It’s not a bad view; it covers the stretch of Shelby’s territory, from Montana Street, Hudson’s neighborhood, across to Harve Grove, and the top of Main down to where it turns off onto Chapin. She can see her house on the left and Brittany’s past that, more towards Main, the park and the Fabray house in the corner of the block.  
  
“See this?” Shelby’s whisper is amplified against her ear. “One day, you could run this. You’re ambitious, too. When Rhodes retires and hands her operation over to that Sunshine girl, you’ll be able to take it over easily.” Shelby scoffs. “Hell, bring a box of wine and you could probably steal it right from Rhodes’ hands if you  _really_  wanted it.”  
  
Santana spares a glance in the direction of Rhodes’ block. “I don’t want it,” she mutters.  
  
“Are you sure? Because that wasn’t too convincing.”  
  
She straightens her shoulders and turns, her eyes hard and narrowed. “I don’t want it,” she says firmly. “I don’t want to be you.”  
  
The older woman laughs. “Yes, because being me is just  _terrible_. Santana, look around. I have  _power_. I have money. I snap my fingers and no less than ten people wait for me to tell them what to do.”  
  
Her palms start to itch. She’s always had this thing about power; about control. She craves it, almost; needs it. Without control, she just falls away. Without control, things happen, like Jesse; things like Brittany. Without control, the things she tries to keep just the way they are change and she’s helpless to stop it from happening.   
  
Shelby sees this too. ‘I’m giving you a chance to be something more than a bottom-feeder, to be someone, and you’re throwing it away, recklessly, for a  _girl_?”  
  
At the mention of Brittany, a flash of rage surges through her, igniting the almost-extinguished fire in her stomach. “Don’t talk about her,” she says, her fists clenching. “I bet you’ve never done anything for anyone in your entire life, so don’t talk about her.”  
  
Shelby scoffs. “Why do you think I took this job when Sylvester offered, Santana?” Santana doesn’t give an answer. “Because,” Shelby says after a minute. “I needed to support my daughter, to protect her, and really, what else is there to do if you don’t get out of here right out of high school? So don’t assume you know anything about me.” The older woman sighs. “Think of the opportunities you’re throwing away. Think of the people you could keep from harm.”  
  
“I think I’m doing an okay job of that so far,” Santana growls.  
  
Shelby smiles sadly again. “For now, at least.”  
  
The words take a few seconds to sink in and by the time Santana really comprehends them Shelby is stacking papers on that table that Santana didn’t see before.  _For now, at least_  echoes in her head as she tries to make sense of the words.  _Is Shelby threatening me?_  “Are you threatening me?” she repeats out loud.  
  
“I’m just making a statement,” Shelby says distractedly, her attention focused on the file in her hand. She looks up, her eyes locking with Santana’s. “I’m just making a statement,” she repeats. “You clearly have quite a few people to take care of. Can you keep up your juggling act for much longer, Santana? Pretty soon you’re just going to…” She drops the folder in her hand and smirks as the papers flutter to the ground in all directions. “I mean, between your mother and that girl-”  
  
Santana stops her fist from slamming down on the table. “I said don’t talk about her.”  
  
Shelby’s eyes harden with something like disappointment. “I honestly believed you were smarter than this. Throwing your life away for a girl you don’t even know? It’s just… _stupid_.”  
  
“I know her,” Santana insists.  
  
The corners of Shelby’s mouth twitch up. “Maybe,” she drawls. “But how much do you  _really_  know about her?”  
  
Santana pauses for a moment. There’s something in the way Shelby is looking at her and speaking to her that has the hair on the back of Santana’s neck standing up. She tries not to let her shoulders sag in defeat, but the constant sense of dread she’s only stopped feeling recently, since Brittany, flares up again and settles in the back of her throat. It dawns on her that Shelby might have a point; might know more than her.   
  
Sure, she knows things about Brittany: her favorite ice cream flavor, her favorite color, the way she always smells like the vanilla candles the funeral home uses. She knows Brittany’s favorite animal and that she likes to swing and that the back of her knee is ticklish; knows Brittany’s favorite food, drink, corner of the couch, t-shirt, pair of shoes, place to be kissed, condiment, tea flavor, book, song, movie, season, way to be surprised, television show. Up until this very moment, those things were important to know. The way Shelby is looking at her, though – the same way Santana looks at the people she’s about to rob blind: that “I-know-something-you-don’t-know-but-you’re-going-to-find-out-soon” smug stare – makes her stomach churn.  
  
“How much do you know about her?” Santana croaks.  
  
Shelby pats the file she’s still holding in her hand. Santana knows that file; she opened that file once but never read or looked past the name scribbled at the top of the labeler. Now she wonders if she should have. Shelby puts it down and slides it across the tabletop until it stops in front of her.  
  
“Go ahead,” Shelby urges quietly. “You can look. One day, it’ll be just another file in your own collection.”  
  
Santana opens it slowly, staring at the picture clipped to the inside cover. It’s a family photograph of Madeline, Brittany and Kathryn. There’s something peeking out from behind it, though, and she unclips the first picture, pulling out another Polaroid. It’s Brittany and Kathryn again, but Madeline is gone, replaced by a tall, elegant woman with Brittany’s eyes and a taller, handsome man with Kathryn’s smile.  _These are her parents_ , she thinks instantly.  _This is her mom and her dad_. Brittany doesn’t look much younger in this second picture than she did when Santana saw her yesterday; Kathryn looks only a year younger at most, so it couldn’t have been that long ago.  
  
The pictures fall to the table and she picks the file backup, her eyes roaming the words quickly until she looks away and takes a deep breath. She needs to focus on the words, not just see them.  
  
 _Family Name[s]: Jannsen, Pierce  
Address: 375 Crosstown  
Family Members: Madeline Jannsen, age 44; Brittany Pierce, age 16; Kathryn Pierce, age 5_  
  
Santana looks up and smirks. “Wow,” she breathes out. “This stuff is pretty juicy.”  
  
Shelby glares back at her. “Turn the page, smartass.”  
  
Reluctantly, she turns the page and reads the title of the first section:  _Notes_. Scanning the page, Santana realizes it’s all one story and it’s long, but some words jump out at her:  _father, mother, dead on arrival, time of death, suicide, homicide, children, permanent guardian…_  
  
“What does it…?”  
  
Shelby nods. “It means exactly what you think it means, Santana. You remember hearing about it on the news.” She does; it was all everyone talked about. Her and Jesse had sat in the car for hours with newspapers, pouring over the different reports. Santana had been kind of fascinated with it.  
  
Now she’s kind of sick to her stomach.  
  
Santana slams the file shut and tosses it back onto the table. “Why’re you showing me this?”  
  
Shelby lifts an eyebrow. “It’s such an insult to yourself, and to me, when you pretend to play dumb. You remember the story, Santana, and the rumors.”  
  
The rumors were that James Pierce was Sylvester’s favorite henchman, but his conscience and his wife finally got to him and he turned on the crime lord, ratting her out to the police. The rumors were that Sue Sylvester hadn’t taken the betrayal lightly and when James and Abigail Pierce had turned up dead, there wasn’t a single person who didn’t believe Sylvester wasn’t responsible. There wasn’t a single person who could prove it, either.  
  
“You’re saying…”  
  
“I’m saying,” Shelby cuts in, “that this sweet, innocent girl you think you want to protect from  _your world_  probably knows more about the finer details of this job that you may never know. She lied to you,” Shelby adds after a moment, as if she thinks that Santana didn’t understand. “You think you’re being noble, saving her from something you don’t think she understands, but sweetie, she’s just making a fool of you.”  
  
Santana pulls away when Shelby reaches for her. “Shut up.”  
  
“The way I see it,” Shelby continues, “Sylvester let them move into my district, but she’s still got an eye on them. And if her father was really who they say he was, she’s a goldmine. With that sweet face of hers and the angel-faced kid sister-”  
  
That gets her blood boiling. She steps as close to Shelby as she can possible stand to, her teeth clenched. “Leave them out of this,” she hisses.  
  
Shelby grins in an awful way, her lips curling back over her teeth. “When it comes down to it, Santana, it’s business over pleasure.”  
  
“Is that why you offed your daughter’s boyfriend?” she growls, her eyes burning.  
  
“He was hurting business.”  
  
It’s the closest Santana will ever get to a confession from Shelby, but it doesn’t ease the flaring ache in her chest the way she thought it would. She imagined that when she had some semi-concrete answer, she’d be relieved at the idea that Jesse wasn’t locked away in a basement somewhere, waiting for her to rescue him. There’s no relief, though. Just a sinking, heavy feeling of reality, knotting in her stomach.  
  
Shelby’s eyes sparkle a little as the light from the sun going down through the window hits them. “I was trying to be diplomatic, Santana, but let’s be serious for a moment. You can’t afford to say no to me.”  
  
“I can,” she protests weakly, her voice cracking.  
  
“You can’t. What about your mother, Santana? Can she make it a day without you force-feeding her?” Shelby’s voice isn’t cruel, though Santana wants it to be. It’s steady and calm and sounds like the small voice in the back of Santana’s head that speaks to her at night as she stares at the ceiling, listening to her mother drift through the halls. She asks herself the same question on those nights. “You turn down my offer and you won’t have worry if she eats or not. There won’t be any food to worry over.”  
  
Santana raises an eyebrow. “Are you threatening me?” she asks again.  
  
The older woman shakes her head. “I’m telling you what you need to hear. You’re willing to protect this girl you don’t seem to really know and sacrifice your mother? Yourself? You need to let your head start doing the thinking, not your hormones. Or your heart,” Shelby adds, one hand up in surrender as Santana’s eyes narrow in silent protest. “You’re a smart girl, Santana.  _Think_  like a smart girl.”  
  
The rational part of Santana’s brain is telling her that Shelby is right – Brittany hid this from her. The irrational part, the one she uses more than a normal person should, is telling her nothing now; is uncomfortably quiet in the face of this sudden revelation.  
  
Santana Lopez is really sick and tired of even  _having_  revelations; is tired of never having all the pieces of the puzzle. She’s tired of having to force, whether it’s her mother to eat, her way into a house, or the pieces of her life to fit.  
  
“Santana,” Shelby says, catching her attention. “No one ever got ahead by doing things for everyone else. And if they did, it was only a one way ticket to the castle in the sky. Think like a smart girl,” she repeats slowly, enunciating every word. This time when she reaches for Santana, she doesn’t move away. Shelby’s hand presses down on her shoulder, just enough pressure to turn her and steer her towards the door. Chang, like a mind reader, has already propped it open and is lounging outside on his crate, his limbs folded over in a way that no man’s limbs should be able to fold.  
  
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Shelby promises, her whisper low in Santana’s ear. “For now, you go home, okay? Think about what I said and we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”  
  
Santana nods because she’s not sure what else she should do. She feels a little off, like once when she was younger and Jesse broke into the community swimming pool in the night. He had taught her this cool trick, where she stood in the shallow end and spun around in a circle, going faster and faster and faster until she couldn’t go any faster. He told her to just let her body drop into the water and she shouldn’t have listened, because he had that look in his eyes that said she was going to regret doing it, but she did anyway. She always did whatever Jesse said. Her body had floated underneath the man-made wave pool surface and the world spun off its axis. It felt like the bottom of the pool was on all sides and she couldn’t find the surface. She felt like she was drowning and she panicked. Her mind went blank and then fuzzy and when Jesse hauled her up out of the water by the arm, there was a buzzing in her ears.  
  
The buzzing in her ears is back, a little quieter than that time in the pool, but still buzzing in a way that makes her steady herself against the wall as she heads back down the stairs and out onto the street, the image of Brittany’s disapproval in the back of her mind.  
  
 _Think like a smart girl,_  Shelby had said.  
  
She gets to the corner where left will take her to Brittany – she said she would stop over at some point in the day and Brittany had smiled and kissed her – and right will take her home.  
  
 _Think like a smart girl_.  
  
She goes right and later that night, puts her phone on silent and pretends to forget she ever promised Brittany she’d come by.


	10. Part 10

There wasn’t a funeral for Jesse St. James. There was a small memorial service, but Santana and Berry had been the only ones besides his parents who showed up. It was as if there was a notice on the service: don’t show up or Shelby will find out about it. Berry was there, and Santana was sure Shelby knew that, but Jesse wasn’t a problem anymore; Shelby probably figured it couldn’t do any harm.  
  
Just because there wasn’t a funeral didn’t mean there wasn’t a headstone. Santana hadn’t seen it –  _they don’t put it in when they first bury someone_ , Berry had whispered to her, like Santana actually gave a damn – but it wasn’t hard to find. It was cleaner than the rest of the markers in that part of the cemetery, where all of the St. James’ were buried, and it stuck out like a sore thumb, the way Jesse’s car always did, parked on the sidewalk outside the school, surrounded by all those dirty, brown cars.  
  
She leans up against the side of his marker, not against the front because she can’t swallow past the lump in her throat when she thinks about her back rubbing against where they engraved his name.  
  
“I have no idea what I’m doing,” she admits quietly.  
  
 _Do what you have to do_ , echoes around her, Jesse’s own words, his answer for everything. Santana couldn’t decide between going to class and taking a drive?  _Do what you have to do_. She wasn’t sure whether to punch Puck or to just make the punk squirm?  _Do what you have to do_. Mail a letter to the address she found in the back of the phone book that she’s sure belongs to her father?  _Do what you have to do_.  
  
“But  _what_  do I do?” she asks. “I can say yes to Shelby, or I can say no.” She sighs and leans her head back against the rounded corner of the stone. “I can’t say no.”  
  
 _Do what you have to do_.  
  
“Oh, shut up,” she growled, pulling a patch of grass up. “Just shut up you, you… traitor. You just…  _asshole_. What the hell were you thinking? She was just a girl. It’s not like you couldn’t have gotten someone else.  _Anyone_  else. What made her so special, huh? She’s nothing special. She’s a face and a mouth and a body and there’s nothing fucking special about that.”  
  
Now she’s not sure if she’s talking about Berry or if she’s talking about Brittany; she’s not sure if she’s talking to Jesse or to herself.  
  
“This used to be easy, remember?” She snorts and shakes her head. “I don’t remember either.”  
  
Santana stretches her legs out in front of her and rolls her hands down her thighs, wishing she was holding something, a beer, anything. She doesn’t like beer, really – Jesse always said the only thing really  _girly_  about her was her taste in alcohol and her love of drinks with umbrellas in them – but it feels like what she should be doing: cracking a beer open against the curve of Jesse’s headstone and toasting the good ole’ days. At least, she saw it in a movie once.  
  
She elbows the marker gently, her arms still sore and raw. “She better have been worth it,” she grumbles roughly. “I hope…” she trails off and tries to swallow past the lump in her throat. It presses against her windpipe and she sucks in a shaky breath. “I hope it didn’t hurt,” she whispers.  
  
It had to have hurt. Noah Puckerman may be a meathead, but he can throw a punch harder than Santana can. She saw how Jesse looked after the warning – like a car had run him over, backed up and did it again. Shelby would have wanted to send a message too, to everyone paying attention. Puck would have made it hurt – if not because Shelby told him to, because guys like Puck believe in payback for the stupidest things, like the time Jesse knocked Puck down a peg or two in front of a pretty girl or when Jesse maybe said something about Puck’s dad.   
  
Dads are kind of a touchy subject with the kids in the neighborhood – no one has really got one and everyone wishes they did.  
  
“Jesse,” she starts.  
  
“Santana?”  
  
Her head snaps up off the marker and her hand is already in her pocket, fumbling for the knife she keeps in case – in case Puck tries to feel her up, in case one of Rhodes’ goons gets funny, in case her dad comes back and tries to apologize.  
  
Brittany’s face looks undecided, like she isn’t sure if she should be mad that Santana blew her off, or if she should be concerned Santana is sitting in a graveyard. Santana watches her nose crinkle up and for a moment, Santana forgets. Then the wrinkles smooth out across Brittany’s forehead and her smile looks kind of hopeful and Santana remembers – the report, crying herself to sleep, the sinking feeling of betrayal digging its way under her skin while she lay in bed.  
  
She scrambles to her feet and staggers back as Brittany reaches out for her.  
  
“Santana?”  
  
“I know,” she breathes out, shaking her head. “I know  _everything_.” She doesn’t, really, but that’s kind of beside the point. She knows  _enough_  and Brittany’s face – the way her eyes go wide and her jaw drops half a second before she catches it and closes her mouth again – tells her the rest. “You’re such a, a hypocrite. Always judging me and looking down on me for what I have to do.”  
  
After a minute, Brittany shakes her head. “I’m not a hypocrite. I hated what my father did. I hate what you do.  _You_  hate what you do,” Brittany continues. “I can see it. The way you looked after that guy tossed you around. And when you talk about your mom, or Jesse. The way you showed up with brownies. You  _hate_  it.”  
  
“I didn’t hate it until you came along,” she hisses. It’s true. She never hated it – she never really loved it, either, but it was something she was good at it, something people recognized her for, something that gave her a reason to get up in the morning. “I was fine until you got here. Jesse was alive before you got here. Everything was good until you showed up with your ‘ _get off my doorstep_ ’ attitude.”   
  
“Jesse isn’t my fault,” Brittany says carefully.  
  
Santana tries to smile but her mouth twists in a way that doesn’t feel like a smile. “If I hadn’t been so, so, so into you, I could have done something. I could have stopped him from being stupid. But  _no_. I was too busy trying to not look stupid in front of you. I was too busy trying to find ways to apologize because I make ends meet for my family the only way that I can in this place. And guess what? Your father did the same thing. He probably did more than me. The money that put you into Carmel is the same money that puts the food no one eats in my fridge.”  
  
Brittany starts to shake her head but Santana is quicker – she’s always been quicker and it’s why she always got a punch in first, before Puck, who might hit harder, but is slower – and she’s already taking a few more steps back, putting more distance between them.  
  
“Don’t you get it, Brittany?” Her voice is high and sounds choppy. “Your dad, he said no. He said no and look where it got him.” She swings her arm around the cemetery. “It got him  _here_. It got him a nice, cozy spot in the grass where people can leave him flowers. Jesse said no.” She takes a sharp lungful of air. “He said no. And look where it got  _him_.”  
  
She scoffs and Brittany winces at the noise. “I say no and…” She waves her arm around again, smiling humorlessly. “Well, at least you can stop by and see me whenever you want to.”  
  
“Shut up,” Brittany says.  
  
Santana looks up. Brittany has her eyes shut tight and her fists are clenched by her side, like she’s trying to physically block out Santana’s words.  
  
“Just shut up,” she says roughly.  
  
“No,” Santana whispers, her body pitching forward, her hands finding the creases around Brittany’s eyes before she allows herself to really move. She smoothes them down and feels Brittany push into the touch. “I can’t shut up. This is serious.” Santana leans in and rests her forehead against Brittany’s collarbone. Long arms wind around her waist, pulling her closer. “If I say no, she’ll come after you,” she whispers.  
  
Brittany stiffens in her arms.  
  
“And Kathryn,” Santana says. “And your aunt. She’ll come after all of you and-”  
  
“We can beat her,” Brittany whispers, squeezing her tighter. “All of us, together. We can do it.” The blonde nudges her back, bumping her forehead against Santana’s. “San, we can beat her, but not this way.”  
  
“Not  _what_  way?” she asks.   
  
Brittany exhales and it sounds like a laugh. “Not by losing our cool. Not letting Shelby get to us.”  
  
Santana pulls back enough so that she can see into Brittany’s eyes. “Us? This isn’t an ‘us’ thing, Brittany. This a ‘me’ thing. This is a Santana versus Shelby thing.”  
  
“It doesn’t have to be you against the world, Santana.”  
  
 _No_ , Santana agrees silently.  _Before it was Santana versus the world, it was JesseandSantana against the world; before that it was the Lopez family. It was never just her against everyone. It’s never been only her. But now Jesse is gone and she won’t drag Brittany into this battle Brittany shouldn’t be fighting. It doesn’t_ have _to be Santana against the world, but she doesn’t need a sidekick and she wouldn’t want it to be Brittany_.  
  
She smirks. “It is. It’s me against them.” She leans in and brushes her mouth against Brittany’s bottom lip. “You’re the prize.”  
  
Brittany is perfectly still. “This isn’t a game,” she says quietly. “This is your life.  _Our_  life.”  
  
Santana leans back even further, frowning, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Our life,” she repeats slowly.  
  
“Our life,” Brittany echoes. Her hands slide up against the rough skin of Santana’s elbows, looping her fingers around Santana’s biceps and tugging her forward effortlessly. “You, me, Kathryn, my aunt, your mom…”  
  
Brittany’s voice is soothing and eager and the way she says  _”our life”_  sets off the flare in stomach that kind of just simmers there. It sparks and shoots up into her throat, burning the inside as she swallows heavily. She’s about to say  _yes_ , it can be their life, all of theirs, and they can fight Shelby off, all together, but a nagging voice in the back of her head is whispering to her and her throat closes up again.  
  
“I told you everything,” she says. “Not everything, but I told you the important things. I told you the things that mattered. You… You didn’t. You-”  
  
“I’m not my father. I don’t want to be my father,” Brittany cuts in, her voice hard – the same kind of edge Berry had in the cafeteria that afternoon: anger and a little bit of hurt. “I knew Sylvester was giving us a pass and I told my aunt we weren’t going to have anything to do with this anymore. And then you showed up and just  _pushed_. And I let you.” Brittany shrugs. “You have a pretty smile,” she says, like that should explain everything. Her gaze drops a little. “I thought you already knew, at least in the beginning. But then you showed up talking about California and…”  
  
Santana ducks her head a little and scratches at the back of her neck.  
  
“And you didn’t know,” Brittany is saying. “If I have to get back into this, I’m doing it with you. We’ll do it together. You, me, everyone. I’m not going to let you do it without me.” She edges across the distance between them and finds Santana’s hand behind her neck, lacing their fingers together. “We’re not running. I’m not running. I’m so tired of running,” she whispers. “So we can fight her, together, or we can join her…”  
  
“Together,” Santana finishes.  
  
Brittany smiles wide and dips her head until she’s kissing Santana, licking her way past Santana’s lips, tracing the roof of Santana’s mouth with her tongue. Her hands slide into Brittany’s back pockets, pulling her closer until she can feel Brittany press against every part of her body. Brittany’s hand is warm against her neck, sliding up into her hair, twisting.  
  
“Together,” Brittany mumbles against her mouth, kissing her again.  
  
Her mind spins as Brittany kisses her in the middle of the cemetery, surrounded by the people who came before her, doing the same job she did. She’s always done this alone, always by herself. It  _was_  JesseandSantana but it hadn’t been, even for a while before there was no more Jesse. Brittany is different than Jesse. She might know the game better than Santana, but Santana has been playing it longer and now she has a chance to play with the big boys, to see what happens behind the closed doors and to hear what they say when they whisper. She has a chance to control who gets pushed and who does the pushing and now she has someone to do it with. Now she has Brittany.  
  
 _Do what you have to do_  slips into her head as Brittany nudges her back against a tree.  
  
She thinks she knows what she should do; she thinks she knows what’s best.  
  
She pictures Jesse sitting on the hood of his car, grinning at her, a bruised and cut hand pushing his hair out of his eyes. “ _Do what you have to do, kid_ ,” he’d say.  
  
 _Do what you have to do_.  
  
\---  
  
Santana swallows the irritation that rises in her throat at the sight of Shelby sitting at the small table in the kitchen and stands straighter. There’s a hint of an “I-knew-it” smirk at the corner of Shelby’s mouth, but Santana ignores that too.  
  
If she’s doing this, surrendering to Shelby Corcoran, she’s doing it on her own terms and term number one is: no one tells her  _”I-told-you”_.  
  
“Good news?” Shelby says, her eyes lighting up.  
  
Santana puts her palms flat against the table, leaning over. Shelby’s smirk falters a little and Santana almost grins in satisfaction, but she holds it in, biting the inside of her cheek, keeping her eyes locked on Shelby’s, her gaze blank. “I’m in.”  
  
Shelby sits up a little taller, gesturing to the seat across from her. “I knew you’d come around.”  
  
\---  
  
 _”I knew you’d come around,” Brittany jokes, whispering against her temple. Santana ducks her head into the curve of Brittany’s neck and breathes out a laugh, suddenly exhausted. The cement of Jesse’s headstone digs into her shoulder blade and it presses against more than just her body.  
  
Brittany sighs happily, tangling their fingers together and Santana lets herself be shaped, because that’s what she does; that’s who she is.  
  
She’s going to do what she has to do.  
  
“I’m going to see Shelby.” Brittany’s body hums against her own. “I’m going to tell her that I’ll do what she wants.”  
  
“No.” Santana feels Brittany moving away and she lifts her head to look at the blonde. “I thought we were going to fight her. Together.”  
  
Santana smiles softly and reaches out, trailing a finger along Brittany’s jaw line. “I’m going to do what she wants. Alone.”  
  
The words dawn on Brittany slowly, as if she doesn’t quite understand what Santana is saying until, suddenly, she does. Santana sees the way Brittany’s eyes brighten as the words sink in and then narrow as they process.  
  
“Alone,” Brittany repeats flatly. “After what we just talked-”  
  
“You talked,” Santana corrects gently. “But Brittany, think about it.”  
  
Brittany stands up, shaking her head. Her eyes flutter closed and when they open again they cut through Santana hard enough that she can’t breathe. “Think. _You _want to think about this. You don’t think about things, you just_ do _them.”  
  
“Well, fine.” Santana puts her hands up in defense. “This is me _doing _something then. I’m doing this alone and you’re going to get out of here.”  
  
The blonde crosses her arms over her chest slowly, looking so much like Kathryn the first time Santana met the little girl that she can see where Kathryn got it from in the first place. For a moment, Santana’s resolution falters and she thinks about smiling and saying “_gotcha _” like it’s all one big joke. The moment is over almost as quickly as it begins and Santana pulls herself together. “I’m in this. Too far and too deep and you… you’re not.” Brittany opens her mouth, but Santana rushes on. “No, listen. I’m in this. I know too much for Shelby to just let me walk away. She knows too many people that can stop us if we try to fight her.”  
  
She steps closer, her hands sliding across Brittany’s stomach, hooking into the belt loops of Brittany’s jeans. It’s a path her hands travel without having to tell them to do it; a path she traced before, finding nothing but skin in place of belt loops as she tipped Brittany over the edge of the couch.  
  
“So you’re not even going to give it a chance?” Brittany asks angrily, the question rhetorical.  
  
“I’m giving _you _a chance,” she hisses back.  
  
Brittany doesn’t get it. Santana is doing this for _her _and Brittany doesn’t even get it.  
  
“Listen to me,” Santana pleads, twisting the loops of Brittany’s jeans in her fingers. “This is just going to keep happening, don’t you get it?”  
  
Brittany doesn’t get this either, Santana can tell. “First it was your dad. And Sylvester let you out, but Shelby is dragging you back in, through me.” She dips her head and drags her mouth across Brittany’s cheek, to her ear. “We can fight her, but only for so long. She’ll find a way to get us back. She’ll use Kathryn, she’ll get Kathryn.”  
  
“We won’t let her,” Brittany says firmly.  
  
“We won’t be able to stop her forever,” Santana whispers. “Shelby has no limits. She has no boundaries. It’s just going to keep happening if you stay.” Her fingertips dip under the waistband of Brittany’s jeans, needing to find skin, something to keep her grounded. “She’ll get Kathryn,” she whispers again.  
  
Brittany gets that._  
  
\---  
  
Santana doesn’t take the seat being offered to her. “On one condition,” she says evenly. “The Pierce girls and their aunt stay out of it.”  
  
Shelby’s smile falters but she recovers and stands up, her files spread across the table, wrinkling under Santana’s palm. The older woman narrows her eyes, like she’s trying to size Santana up and it’s one part amusing, one part intimidating.  
  
Things start to click in Santana’s mind; she can see where all the tricks Jesse was teaching her – how to seem bigger than you are, when to fight and when to run – came from in the way Shelby stands with one hand hanging loosely by her side like she could do something with it she wanted to and the way her mouth is twitching down in the corners. Santana copies the motion – because that’s what she was taught to do – and the firm line of Shelby’s mouth cracks into a smile.  
  
Shelby is amused. Santana isn’t.  
  
“We’ll talk about it,” Shelby says dismissively.  
  
Santana straightens up, not as tall as Shelby in her heels, but tall enough so that she can see into Shelby’s eyes – Berry’s eyes – and make sure she’s understood. “It’s not up for debate,” she says slowly, enunciating every word.  
  
A slim eyebrow lifts. “Oh, it’s not?”  
  
“No. It’s not.”  
  
Tanaka snorts behind her and Santana spins on one heel, fist clenched and ready to be cocked back, but the washed out Denny’s All-You-Can-Eat reigning champ takes a step back towards the door, bumping shoulders with Schuester. The two sad excuses for bodyguards don’t look they know what they should be doing, eyes darting around the room between Santana and Shelby.  
  
“Out,” Shelby snaps. Tanaka and Schuester scramble over each other to get to the door and Santana can almost admire the power Shelby has; she wasn’t kidding when she said that she snapped her fingers and people went running. “Do something useful.”  
  
Shelby waits until the door closes behind them. “Let’s get something straight here, Lopez. I may be taking you on, but you’re still following my rules.”  
  
“And I’m only saying yes if you follow mine,” Santana snaps back. “The Pierces and their aunt are off limits.”  
  
“My game, my rules,” Shelby says.  
  
\---  
  
 _”My game, my rules,” Santana snaps, her face flushing when Kathryn scowls up at her. “Sorry,” she murmurs at the little girl. “But that’s how it is.”  
  
“I don’t think I understand,” Madeline says slowly. “You want us to move. Again.”  
  
Brittany is jackknifed into the corner of the couch, her arms crossed over her chest, silent, staring across the room at the armchair. Santana glances at her and tries not to sigh. “Yes,” she says, her eyes on Brittany but her words directed at Madeline. “It’s the safest way to not get involved.”  
  
“We just moved,” Brittany and Madeline say at the same time.  
  
Kathryn looks up at her and nods. “Yeah,” she agrees. She looks back down and focuses on Santana’s Converse, a Sharpie in her hand. Santana’s once-clean left shoe is now covered in drawings that don’t seem to make any sense. The shapes from the Lucky Charms cereal are littered along the edge of the sole and there’s a small scribble that could spell out _”Kathryn” _if Kathryn actually knew how to spell her name. Stick people are overlapping each other and when Quinn sees how her birthday present to Santana has been defaced, she’ll probably get a solid punch in the arm.  
  
“It’s what’s best,” Santana pushes. “You might not think so right now, but I _know _you know how much this business can ruin things.”  
  
Santana thinks of her mother and Jesse and Berry and how this is a losing game, but maybe, maybe Madeline and Brittany and Kathryn can win if Santana tries hard enough to help them.  
  
“It does,” Madeline says quietly, her eyes guarded. “My sister died because of this business.   
  
Santana nods. “I won’t let anyone else go through that,” she says firmly, her eyes still locked on the curve of Brittany’s cheek.  
  
Santana paces across the living room floor. “It’s my game and it’s my rules, so you’re going to do what I say, okay?” Her voice is lower, softer than usual, because force isn’t going to make this work. She may be hotheaded and more emotional than she’d ever admit, but she won’t force them into leaving by the tone of her voice.  
  
“It’ll never work,” Brittany says. Santana flinches at the sound of her voice. Brittany hasn’t said anything to her in a week; just stared at her every time Santana tried to say something, daring her to speak up. Now the blonde is looking at her, her eyes just as unreadable as Madeline’s. “It’ll never work. You can push us out of here, but you can’t push us far enough away that Shelby can’t reach us. You’re really not as good as you think you are.”  
  
“Brittany,” Madeline says quietly. “Stop.”  
  
Santana shrugs and pretends like it doesn’t sting as much as it does. “She’s right. I’m not. That’s why I brought her.” Berry takes that as her cue, sitting on the edge of the armchair where she’s been since Santana strong-armed her way into the house when Brittany tried to close the door on them, and stands up and smoothes down her skirt. “She can do what I can’t.”  
  
She hates admitting that there are things she’s not capable of. It’s why she never has anyone over, so they don’t see her mother. It’s why she shoves her math tests to the bottom of her backpack, so no one sees her grades. It’s why she ran home after the first time Puck dared to hit her back, so no one would see her cry. It’s why she keeps her eyes closed when she kisses Brittany, so no one sees that she’s never wanted anything more in her life.  
  
“I’m Rachel Berry, ma’am,” Berry says, holding her hand out to Madeline.  
  
Madeline shakes her hand slowly. “You’re that Corcoran woman’s daughter.”  
  
Berry nods and extends her hand to Kathryn who is waiting expectantly to shake it. Santana smirks when the little girl grins at Berry and goes right back to drawing what looks like an upside down house on Santana’s shoe top.  
  
“I can assure you, I’m here to help.”  
  
It’s disgusting – and another thing she’d never admit – but the way Berry’s voice doesn’t really go any louder than a whisper is starting to hurt something inside Santana’s chest cavity. Santana wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until Berry screams or sings or _anything _because this whole “pretty much a mute now” routine is unsettling and uncomfortable and awkward. Since Jesse, this is all Berry has been: a shell. It pisses her off that Berry is taking his death harder than she is, but Santana can’t ever say Berry didn’t love him, and that counts for something, she guesses. It still doesn’t stop her from wanting to do something, anything, to get Berry to do something other than always frown.  
  
“Who my mother is bears no consequence on whether or not I help you.” Berry pauses and looks away. “My mother is essentially dead to me.”  
  
Madeline wants to ask, Santana can tell, but she sets her jaw instead and gives a small nod. Kathryn, though, looks up, the tip of her Sharpie skidding across Santana’s laces and across the fabric that covers her ankle.  
  
“Your mommy is dead too?”  
  
Berry looks at Madeline and Brittany, her eyes swinging around the room like she’s unsure of what to do. Finally, she nods slowly and bends her knees – _not that it takes a lot for her to get down to Kathryn’s level _, Santana thinks – and looks the little girl in the eye. “To me. She’s dead to me.”  
  
“My mommy is dead to me too,” Kathryn says seriously, her eyes big and sad. Brittany makes a noise in the back of her throat and Santana almost reaches over and runs her fingers across Brittany’s forehead, to smooth out the wrinkles, but Madeline is there first, wrapping her hand around Brittany’s wrist. “A man came-ed to the door and he told me so.”  
  
Now Santana knows why Kathryn freaked out when Santana tried to bully her way through the door and why Brittany was so angry about it. Her body does that reaction thing she hates and she reaches an arm down, running it through Kathryn’s hair. It’s thinner than Brittany’s but it still tangles around Santana’s fingers the same way.  
  
“I’m very sorry,” Berry says awkwardly, as if she’s forcing the words out.  
  
Kathryn pats Berry’s knee and gives her a lopsided smile. “I’m sorry for you too.”  
  
Berry looks up at her with the same wide eyes Kathryn does and Santana isn’t sure what to do. Her eyes sting and Kathryn is still sitting on Santana’s right foot, anchoring her to the floor and comforting Berry isn’t at the top of her list of things to do.  
  
“Berry,” she starts, swallowing roughly. “Rachel has a plan. She has a plan to make this work.”  
  
“So she’s going to help us?” Madeline asks.  
  
Santana looks at Berry and sees, not for the first time, that pain in the corner of Berry’s eyes. But there’s the desire for revenge somewhere in there too and Santana can understand and appreciate it enough to nod at the shorter girl and look at Madeline.  
  
“Listen,” she says quietly, running her hand through Kathryn’s hair again. “Just listen.”_  
  
\---  
  
“It’s  _my_  game now,” Santana says, her mouth curling up in a smirk.  
  
Shelby’s cheeks are flushed red in anger and the pen in her hand bends in a way it shouldn’t normally bend. “You used, you  _used_  my daughter,” Shelby breathes out unevenly.  
  
Santana crosses her arms over her chest and cants one hip out. “She used me, actually, but I’ll take it as a compliment anyway.”  
  
It’s the truth. Berry wanted to get revenge on her mother for Jesse and Santana was the perfect opportunity. It was the perfect plan, too, because with the way they did it, Santana isn’t directly responsible for losing a house and a family and a payoff. Berry did that. Rachel Berry ripped off her own mother and Shelby Corcoran wouldn’t dare try and get her back.  
  
Shelby Corcoran might be a lot of things, but she’s a mother who loves her daughter.  
  
Santana recognized that, so she exploited it and used it to her advantage and she will as long as she needs to, if it’ll get her ahead  
  
 _Take no prisoners_  will be her new attitude. Take no prisoners and make no friends and have no weak spots. She stopped answering Quinn’s calls six days ago and hasn’t been to school except to sit on the hood of Jesse’s car – she managed to convince his dad to give her the keys, saying that Jesse would have wanted her to have it, not that his dad put up much of a fight over it – and watch kids push their way out as soon as the bell rang, scoping out new talent. She’ll pick up a few new kids, she figures, and expand the boundaries of Shelby’s neighborhood, slowly pulling streets right out of April Rhodes’ alcoholic hands.  
  
She might not be good at math, but she was always a whiz at Stratego.   
  
If she’s doing this, she’ll  _do_  it, nothing halfway. If Shelby wanted someone who did things halfway, then she picked the wrong person. Santana Lopez is the kind of girl who learns things quickly and learns them better than she was taught them – Jesse always said that, after every time he taught her something new: breaking a window, breaking a nose, breaking a heart.  
  
 _Do what you have to do to get the job done._  
  
“I suppose I should applaud you for that,” Shelby says slowly.  
  
“I suppose you should.”  
  
“But I’m not going to,” Shelby finishes.  
  
Santana gives a humorless smile. “Of course you won’t.”  
  
“This won’t be easy.”  
  
“Nothing ever is,” Santana says. “That’s life.”  
  
\---  
  
 _”That’s life,” a kid sings off-key as he races past them on his bicycle, weaving around the luggage on the sidewalk. Madeline steps off the sidewalk to avoid him and lifts another suitcase into the back of their car. Santana is on the edge of the stoop, keeping an eye out. Berry said she had all of Shelby’s eyes on the street taken care of so they could get out of the neighborhood without being seen, but Santana doesn’t want to be too careful. She can’t afford it.  
  
Kathryn bounces down the stairs and stops in front of her, sticking her hands under Santana’s nose. “I painted them ‘pecially for the trip.” She peers at Santana’s nails. “What are your colors?”  
  
Santana frowns at her hands. “I didn’t paint mine.”  
  
“But everyone was ‘upposed to. That’s the triproad rule.”  
  
“The roadtrip rule,” Madeline corrects, patting the top of Kathryn’s head. After a moment’s hesitation, she rubs Santana’s shoulder, glancing at Brittany sitting on the hood of the car, flipping through a magazine. “Kathryn, why don’t you come help me find the boxes that say kitchen, huh?”  
  
The little girl nods excitedly and hops back up the stairs one at a time and Madeline follows. Santana slides off the cool stone of the steps and thrusts her nail polish-less hands into her pockets, looking everywhere but at Brittany as she slowly moves towards the car.  
  
“Hey,” she says quietly when she gets close enough.  
  
Brittany looks up from her magazine but doesn’t say anything.  
  
“I don’t want this any more than you do,” Santana says, her thighs brushing against the front bumper. “Brittany, please.”  
  
Blue eyes snap up. “You sure about that? Because you seem really eager to get us out of here.”  
  
Her hands are out of her pocket and tugging down the magazine before Brittany can pull away. One hand reaches forward, curling around Brittany’s neck, pulling her forward enough so that every time Brittany exhales, Santana feels it against her cheek.  
  
“I want you to stay,” she whispers. “I want you to stay more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.” Her eyes search Brittany’s, pleading with the other girl to see it; to see that Santana is telling the truth. She has never, ever wanted anything more than this – not for her father to come back, not for her mother to wake up, not for Jesse to be alive. She’s never wanted anything more in her life than Brittany.  
  
Maybe Brittany sees it, because the tension in her shoulders uncoils and she slumps forward, her jeans sliding against the hood of the car as she slips down towards Santana. Her legs land on either side of Santana’s body and for the first time in too long – she’s going to have to prepare herself for waiting even longer – Brittany’s body is touching hers. Her hand slides through Brittany’s hair, winding it around her fingers. She brushes her mouth against Brittany’s temple.  
  
“San,” Brittany breathes out. “I don’t want to do this.”  
  
“Neither do I.” She kisses Brittany’s forehead, her browline, her eyelid. “But we have a plan, remember?”  
  
Brittany nods. “It still sucks,” she spits out. “This whole thing…”  
  
Santana ducks her head and finds Brittany bottom lip, kissing her gently. She feels like she’s inside her own little bubble – even if Shelby’s guard dogs are hanging around, she wouldn’t notice them – and when Brittany whimpers and kisses her back, pale hands pulling her closer and closer, she doesn’t ever want to leave.  
  
She breaks the kiss, breathing in gulps of air unevenly past the lump in her throat. Brittany’s face is splotchy red under her eyes, like she’s been crying or like she’ll start crying any minute.  
  
“Don’t take too long,” Brittany says, twisting her fingers in Santana’s sweatshirt. “Don’t you dare take too long.”  
  
The plan is to let Madeline and Brittany and Kathryn go west, to California. Brittany has family there too, apparently, that is willing to take them in until Madeline can find a job and an apartment. Santana didn’t ask for a specific location, but in a couple of weeks, she’ll make a call to a certain number and follow them. Santana can move in with them and help with the rent and it’ll be just like she told Brittany before. Everything will fall into place and Santana will get out of Lima and head towards California.  
  
“Don’t you dare fucking take too long,” Brittany says again.  
  
“I’ll try not to,” she promises. She twists the fine hairs behind Brittany’s neck around her fingers, crossing them over one another. “I’ll try not to be too long.”  
  
Brittany kisses her again, harder and deeper, her tongue licking past Santana’s lips, tangling with Santana’s tongue. It feels too fast and too desperate for Santana – she wants slow and easy and calm, but she’ll take this; she’ll take what she can get until she can’t have it anymore.  
  
Until it’s too far gone to ever have again._  
  
\---  
  
“That’s life,” Shelby echoes, nodding. She gestures to the papers on the table and sits back down. This time, Santana sits down too. She pulls a file from the stack in the middle of the table and flips it open.  
  
 _Family Name[s]: Hudson  
Address: 57 Manning  
Family Members: Carol Hudson, age 47; Finn Hudson, age 16_  
  
Santana scoffs.  _NO ACTION_  is scribbled across the top of the page in big red letters. She shakes her head and plucks a pen off the table near Shelby, drawing a giant ‘X’ through the no action order.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“From now on,” Santana says firmly, “ _everyone_  pays up. It doesn’t matter if your father is a war hero or a drug dealer. You pay or we make it hell.” Her eyes sting, but this time with a fire she’s been perfecting for the last seven years instead of the burn that comes right before she’s about to cry. She leans towards the table,  _daring_  Shelby to say something, but the older woman only lifts an eyebrow and nods after a moment.  
  
“Fine. Everyone pays.” Shelby leans back in her seat. “What’s Russell’s daughter going to say about that, though? She’s dating the Hudson boy, right? And she’s your best friend.”  
  
Santana can see a piece of bait dangled in front of her when it happens. She gives Shelby a ‘ _what the hell do I care_ ’ look and opens another file folder. “She’s not my best friend,” she says after a moment, grinding her teeth. “She’s a client.”  
  
She keeps talking before Shelby has time to say anything back. “Speaking of that, Russell Fabray is skimming off the top. At least forty a week, maybe more. He’s been doing it for years.”  
  
“He what?”  
  
“I’m actually surprised you haven’t caught onto that yet,” Santana continues, her voice calm and even. “What is it you told me to do? Think like a smart girl? A smart girl would have caught that the first time the books were off, right?” Shelby’s mouth opens but closes again just as silently. “I mean, really. Who did you think was responsible? Jesse?”  
  
It hardly even hurts when she says his name now.  
  
“Or did you think it was me? Puckerman isn’t smart enough for something like that. But Russ, he’s got access and somewhere else to put that money he takes.” Santana closes the file in her hand and drops it to the ground with a slight thud noise. “I mean, you  _have_  seen his house. It’s nicer than this sad excuse of a headquarters. Whatever.”  
  
Shelby exhales loudly and Santana smirks. “Anything else you’d like to share with the class, Santana?”  
  
Santana leans forward, dropping her elbows onto the table. “Get rid of Schuester and Tanaka and every guy working for you who is either over the age of thirty, or who can’t see their toes because their gut is in the way. I’ve been watching some of the kids at the high school. There’s this kid, Sam Evans. He looks like he could use some help from us. The relationship could be mutually beneficial. We use him, he uses us.”  
  
The older woman motions to Chang standing in the corner. The tall Asian leans down next to her mouth and listens, nodding after a few moments. Santana is about to ask what’s going on – she’s management now and she should know what’s going on at all times – but Chang is slipping out of the room and shutting the door behind him.  
  
Shelby looks back at her, staring at her until Santana feels like squirming in her seat. “I’m impressed,” she admits. “I didn’t think you would be so… eager.”  
  
“I have something you want,” Santana explains. “So here I am.”  
  
“But what do I have that you want?” Shelby asks, tapping the very tips of her fingers together.  
  
 _Nothing. You have nothing that I want_ , Santana wants to shout. Everything she wants is probably already in California – if they didn’t make a hundred pit stops to see different things and for Kathryn to go the bathroom, which they probably did.  
  
Except she won’t tell Shelby that; she won’t give anything away. She doesn’t even smirk when she says, “Power. And money. And power,” even if Shelby laughs, tossing her head back.  
  
“I think this could work,” Shelby says, her smile stretching across her face. Santana isn’t sure her smile can span that far anymore without tearing the muscles in her face, but she doesn’t care. Santana Lopez doesn’t have to worry about smiling anymore.  
  
\---  
  
 _”Do you think this could work?” Brittany asks quietly,  
  
Santana gives her a small smile, her hand in Brittany’s back pocket, leaning up against the car. “Trust me,” she says quietly, trying to seem reassuring.  
  
Brittany smiles sadly. “You’re just saying that so I won’t do something silly. Like cry.”  
  
Santana shakes her head. “No I’m not.”  
  
“Really?” Brittany asks cautiously. Santana grins and kisses the corner of Brittany’s mouth. “Okay,” the blonde sighs. “Okay.”  
  
Kathryn comes bounding down the stairs, jumping up and wrapping her body around Santana’s leg. Santana stumbles to one side but Brittany is there, wrapping her arm around Santana’s waist and steadying her.  
  
“Kathryn, say goodbye,” Madeline says gently, unwrapping the little girl from around Santana. The older woman smiles at Santana and presses her palm against Santana’s cheek, staring at her. “Thank you, Santana.”  
  
She’s not sure what Madeline Janssen is thanking her for; she practically ruined their lives. But her eyes flutter closed as Madeline leans in and kisses her on the forehead, the way her mom used to when she was younger, just before she went to sleep. There’s a sense of calm that comes with it that vanishes just as quickly when Kathryn’s tiny fingers dig into her side.  
  
“It’s not fornever, is it?” Kathryn asks, her voice so little.  
  
“Forever,” Brittany and Santana correct at the same time, smiling at each other. Santana hoists Kathryn onto her hip and hugs the little girl tighter than she should, smiling wider when Kathryn hugs back harder, rubbing her nose into the crook of Santana’s neck.  
  
She doesn’t answer Kathryn’s question, but she doesn’t get asked again anyway. Kathryn wiggles out of her arms and jumps to the pavement, hooking her arm around Santana’s neck and pulling her down a little.  
  
“I’m going to miss you,” Kathryn whispers in her ear, giving her a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “You’re my favoritest, but don’t tell Brittbee.”  
  
Santana taps Kathryn on the nose. “I won’t,” she promises.  
  
_That’s _a promise she can actually keep.  
  
Madeline buckles Kathryn in and gets in the car, rolling the windows up and pretending like Brittany and Santana aren’t standing in front of the car, saying goodbye.  
  
“Still feel like you’re on fire?” Brittany’s mouth twitches up in a smile.  
  
“So maybe it wasn’t the most romantic way to say it.”  
  
Brittany brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “So say what?” she prompts.  
  
Santana doesn’t hesitate. “That I love you.”  
  
Blonde hair clouds her eyes as Brittany drops her head against Santana’s shoulder, turning into the same spot where Kathryn rubbed her nose dry. “You would say that,” she grumbles. “You would say that you love me as I’m leaving to go halfway across the country.” Brittany smiles against her neck. “At least you’re coming to meet us soon. That’s something.”  
  
She kisses Brittany’s forehead instead of answering, because Santana Lopez may be a lot of things – a juvenile delinquent, a troublemaker, a bad apple – but she’s not someone who makes a promise she can’t keep.  
  
Her free hand curls under Brittany’s chin, lifting her head up. She kisses Brittany slowly, savoring the way Brittany’s body just seems to mold against her, trying to ingrain the feel of Brittany’s lips between her own. Brittany presses harder against her, her fingers skating along the waistline of Santana’s jeans.  
  
“You love me too, right?” she asks, her words mumbled against Brittany’s mouth. “You love me back, don’t you?”  
  
Brittany smiles into the kiss. “Of course I do. This would all be kind of stupid if I didn’t, right?”  
  
“Right,” Santana breathes out, relieved. “I was just… making sure.”  
  
“Okay,” Brittany says softly, kissing her again.  
  
Santana breaks the kiss this time, moving just out of Brittany’s reach before she can pull her back in. Berry only promised them an hour, tops, and it’s been close to two, now. She opens the door the way she used to watch Jesse do it for Berry and Brittany smiles gently, getting in the car and rolling the window down before closing it.  
  
“You’ll call me, right? As soon as you’ve got everything taken care of.”  
  
Santana kisses Brittany again, her default answer for every question asked that she doesn’t want to hear. Kathryn makes a noise in the backseat, her little nose scrunched up and her eyes wound shut. Madeline laughs at the little girl and looks past Brittany at Santana.  
  
Madeline knows. Santana can tell, just by the way Madeline stares at her; Madeline knows that this is as far as everything is going to go and Santana can’t do anything but stare back and hope that she doesn’t look the way she feels: like she’s pleading with Madeline not to say anything, not to break spell that Brittany and Kathryn are under.  
  
This isn’t a fairytale story. Santana Lopez is not the girl who gets out of a place like Lima. Santana Lopez is exactly the type of girl who thrives in Lima because she has to; because there’s no place else for her to go.   
  
Madeline knows and Santana feels the pressure start to build inside of her, choking the words in her throat.   
  
“Brittany,” the older woman says gently. “We have to go now if we’re going.”  
  
Brittany smiles at her again, tugging her closer by the hand, kissing her one last time so lightly Santana will probably go to bed that night and not be able to remember if it really happened or if it was just a dream.  
  
She steps back onto the curb as Madeline turns the engine over. Brittany hangs out of the window, staring at her and smiling and Kathryn starts waving in a big giant flurry of hands. They pull out into the street, Brittany still watching her as the car gets one house then two, then three houses away.  
  
For a moment, she wonders if she should run after the car, chase it down, jump inside and tell Madeline to just drive, but her feet are stuck to the pavement just like every other person in Lima before her; they’re born here and they’ll die here, Lima losers for life.  
  
Santana watches the car turn the corner and her facial muscles contract, pulling together in a way that’s not a frown and not a smile, but is just kind of there.  
  
Brittany is gone. Brittany is gone from here, probably turning out of Shelby’s neighborhood now, cutting through April Rhodes’ territory on her way to the Lima limit. Brittany is gone and free and Kathryn can grow up without having to worry about how much of a childhood she’ll actually get before she learns how to throw her first punch and Madeline will never have to look over her shoulder or set aside some money each week to pay people off.  
  
Santana did that. She made it happen. She pulled everything together and sent it flying apart again in a way so that everyone wins.  
  
Everyone except for her.  
  
Brittany is gone, so she wins.  
  
Brittany is gone, so she loses.  
  
She broke one cycle, but she’s starting another where no matter if she wins or loses, Brittany is still gone in the end._  
  
\---  
  
Shelby lays a map out across the table with Post-its at each illustrated corner. Puck’s name, Schuester’s name, Tanaka, Rutherford – they all have Post-Its. Her name is on a blue on it, right over where Crosstown meets Sheldon. Shelby grins as she peels it off.  
  
“You won’t need this anymore,” she says, wadding it up and tossing it in the general direction of the trash. “You said you’ve been scouting potential, we’ll find someone to take your block. From now on,” she continues, “you’ll be running  _all_  these neighborhoods. Each and every single one of them is under your thumb, just like Jesse used to do.”  
  
Santana doesn’t even flinch; Jesse’s name rolls off her easily.  
  
“Congratulations, Santana,” Shelby praises, clapping her on the shoulder. “Not even six months ago, you were getting your first neighborhood. Now you have a whole series of blocks, all at your mercy. Within reason, of course,” Shelby says, her smile still in place, but her eyes hard, cutting. “But you’re in charge now, kid.”  
Shelby’s arm, as it slides around her shoulders, is heavy and suffocating. “So,” the older woman says, grinning down at her. “How does it feel to finally have everything you ever wanted?”  
  
Santana stares back at her with blank eyes, taking in the excitement in Shelby’s eyes and the way her mouth is turned up in something that looks like a genuine smile – the first genuine smile she’s ever seen from Shelby Corcoran.  
  
She has everything she ever wanted, Shelby is right.   
  
It’s just that she can’t feel anything anymore so having everything she thought she wanted means nothing now.  
  
“It doesn’t feel like anything I imagined,” she says roughly.  
  
Shelby squeezes her shoulder. “It never does.”

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Glee Femslash Big Bang Challenge.
> 
> Awesome artwork done by Kay.


End file.
